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THE  NARROW  HOUSE 


THE 

NARROW   HOUSE 


BY 

EVELYN  SCOTT 

AUTHOR  OP  "PRECIPITATIONS" 


BONI  AND   LIVERIGHT 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1901, 

BY  BONI   &  LlVERIGHT,    ItfC. 

All  rights  reserved 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


"Love  seeketh  only  Self  to  please. 
To  bind  another  to  its  delight. 
Joys  in  another's  loss  of  ease, 
And  builds  a  hell  in  heaven's  despite" 

— WILLIAM  BLAKE 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 


PART  I 

THE  hot,  bright  street  looked  almost  deserted.  A 
sign  swung  before  the  disheveled  building  at  the 
corner  and  on  a  purple  ground  one  could  read  the 
notice,  "Robinson  &  Son,  Builders,"  painted  in  tall 
white  letters.  Some  broken  plaster  had  been  thrown 
from  one  of  the  windows  and  lay  on  the  dusty  sidewalk 
in  a  glaring  heap. 

The  old-fashioned  house  next  door  was  as  badly  in 
need  of  improvements  as  the  one  undergoing  altera- 
tions. The  dingy  brick  walls  were  streaked  by  the 
drippage  from  the  leaky  tin  gutter  that  ran  along  the 
roof.  The  massive  shutters,  thrown  back  from  the 
long  windows,  were  rotting  away.  Below  the  lifted 
panes  very  clean  worn  curtains  hung  slack  like  things 
exhausted  by  the  heat. 

Some  papers  had  been  thrust  in  the  tin  letter  box 
before  the  clumsy  dark  green  door,  and  as  Mrs.  Farley 
emerged  from  the  house  she  stopped  to  glance  at  them 
before  descending  to  the  street.  One  of  the  papers  had 
a  Kansas  City  postmark  and  she  thought  it  must  have 
come  for  her  husband  from  a  certain  woman  whom  she 

7 


8  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

was  trying  to  forget.     She  placed  the  papers  clumsily 
back  where  she  had  found  them. 

As  she  passed  down  the  stone  stairs  she  stooped  to 
toss  a  bright  scrap  of  orange  peel  to  the  gutter.  She 
sighed  as  she  did  it,  not  even  taking  the  trouble  to 
brush  the  dust  from  the  shabby  white  cotton  gloves 
she  wore.  Her  skirt  was  too  long  behind  and  as  she 
dragged  her  feet  across  the  pavement  it  swept  the 
ground  after  her.  She  glanced  into  the  place  which 
was  being  repaired  and  wished  that  something  might 
be  done  to  improve  her  home.  At  any  rate  now  that 
her  daughter-in-law,  Winnie,  had  become  reconciled 
to  her  parents  things  would  be  better.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Price  were  rich.  They  had  a  carriage  and  an  automo- 
bile. Mrs.  Farley  told  herself  that  it  was  because  of 
her  grandchildren  that  the  end  of  the  long  family 
quarrel  brought  some  relief.  Winnie's  two  babies,  a 
girl  and  a  boy,  would  now  enjoy  many  things  which  the 
Farleys  had  not  been  able  to  provide.  Mrs.  Farley 
thought  of  them  going  to  church  in  Mrs.  Price's  fine 
carriage.  Mrs.  Farley  knew  that  she  should  have  taken 
the  part  of  her  son,  Laurence,  who  had  been  responsible 
for  the  disagreement,  but  somehow  it  had  been  impos- 
sible to  condemn  Winnie.  The  poor  girl  was  not 
strong.  Laurie  was  a  harsh  man.  He  was  stubborn. 
He  did  not  forgive  easily  and  would  suffer  everything 
rather  than  admit  himself  in  the  wrong.  He  had  been 
like  that  as  a  youth.  And  idly,  as  one  in  a  boat  allows 
a  hand  to  trail  along  the  silken  surface  of  the  water, 
the  woman  allowed  her  mind  to  drift  with  the  surface 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  9 

of  long  past  events.  She  had  reached  the  butcher  shop ; 
had  almost  gone  by  it. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Farley?  Nice  warm  weather 
we're  having."  The  butcher  had  a  hooked  nose  and 
when  he  smiled  it  seemed  to  press  down  his  thick  brown 
mustache  that  framed  his  even  white  teeth  so  beauti- 
fully. He  settled  his  apron  over  his  stomach  and  gazed 
at  her  hungrily  and  affectionately  above  the  glass  top 
of  the  counter  as  though  he  were  trying  to  hypnotize 
her  into  buying  some  of  the  coral  pink  sausages  which 
reposed  beside  a  block  of  ice  in  the  transparent  case. 

The  meat  shop  was  as  white  as  death.  It  smelt  of 
blood  and  sawdust  and  its  tiled  interior  offered  a  refuge 
from  the  heat  without. 

"I  want  a  piece  of — can  you  give  me  a  nice  rib  roast 
today — ?  No!  What  do  you  ask  for  those  hens?" 
Mrs.  Farley,  as  always,  hesitated  when  she  spoke  and 
lines  as  fine  as  hairs  traced  themselves  on  her  pale,  dry, 
hastily  powdered  forehead.  Her  vague,  rather  squint- 
ing eyes  traveled  undecidedly  over  the  big  pieces  of 
meat :  the  shoulders,  the  forelegs,  the  haunches,  of  differ- 
ent shades  of  red  streaked  with  tallow  or  suet,  that 
swung  on  hooks  in  the  shadow  against  the  gray-white 
tiling  of  the  walls.  The  fowls  dangled  in  a  row  a  little 
to  the  fore  of  the  meat.  The  feet  of  the  hens  were  a 
sickly  bluish  yellow,  and  the  toes,  cramped  together  yet 
flaccid,  still  suggested  the  fatigue  which  follows  agony. 
The  eyes  bulged  under  thin  blue-tinged  lids  and  on  the 
heads  and  necks  about  the  close-shut  beaks  bunches  of 
reddish  brown  feathers  had  been  left  as  decorations. 
The  butcher  took  one  down  and,  laying  it  on  the  coun- 


10  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

ter,  pinched  up  the  plump  flesh  between  his  forefinger 
and  thumb. 

<<You  could  never  find  a  better  fed  hen  than  that,'* 
he  told  her.  "Nice  firm  solid  meat.  You  see  they  are 
just  in  and  I  was  so  sure  of  getting  rid  of  them  I  did 
not  even  put  them  on  the  ice  yet.  They're  not  storage 
fowls.  I  buy  them  from  a  young  man  who  has  a  farm 
out  near  where  my  sister  lives  at  Southbridge." 

Mrs.  Farley,  in  spite  of  a  gala  occasion  and  the  fact 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Price  were  to  do  her  the  condescen- 
sion of  coming  to  dinner  at  her  house  the  next  day,  had 
not  intended  to  buy  anything  so  expensive  as  chicken. 
For  all  those  people  it  would  take  two  hens.  But 
though  she  tried  her  best  not  to  allow  the  butcher  to 
catch  her  eye,  she  knew  he  was  staring  at  her  intently 
and  that  the  white  teeth  were  flashing  almost  cruelly 
under  the  brown  mustache  beneath  the  hooked  nose. 
It  heightened  a  conviction  of  weakness  which  she  never 
failed  to  experience  when  she  was  called  upon  to  decide 
anything,  especially  in  the  presence  of  other  people, 
and  she  wished  she  had  asked  Alice  to  buy  the  meat  be- 
fore she  went  to  work.  Of  course  Alice  would  spend  too 
much  but  what  she  got  was  sure  to  be  nice  and  the  din- 
ers were  certain  to  praise  it. 

"I  will  take  two  of  the  hens,"  said  Mrs.  Farley, 
moistening  the  dry  down  along  her  lips.  "Be  sure  you 
give  me  fat  ones,"  she  went  on,  frowning.  While  she 
fumbled  in  the  pocketbook  for  the  money  she  did  not 
cease  to  be  aware  of  the  pleasant  confident  manner  of 
the  butcher,  as  with  deft  fingers  he  ran  his  hand  into 
the  bird  and  with  a  slight  clawing  sound  tore  out  a 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  11 

heap  of  discolored  entrails  so  neatly  that  not  one  burst. 
Then  he  slit  the  chicken's  neck  and  extracted  its  crop. 
Mrs.  Farley  was  anxious  to  get  away.  She  never  had 
any  peace  of  mind  except  when  she  was  by  herself. 

"I'm  sure  you  will  be  pleased,"  declared  the  butcher 
with  a  slight  bow,  as  he  took  the  money  she  handed  him. 
Her  short  white  hand  was  corded  with  bluish  veins  and 
her  fingers  were  slightly  knotted  and  bent  from  gout. 
They  had  hovered  almost  palpitantly  over  her  worn 
black  purse  while  she  tried  to  make  up  her  mind  whether 
to  give  him  the  exact  amount  or  to  ask  him  to  change 
the  five  dollars  which  Alice  had  turned  over  to  her  that 
morning.  At  last  she  gave  him  the  five  dollars,  and 
when  he  counted  the  sum  due  her  into  her  palm  the 
dull  brightness  of  the  pieces  of  money  swam  slightly 
before  her  eyes  and  she  had  no  idea  whether  or  not  the 
amount  returned  to  her  was  what  was  owing. 

The  butcher  bowed  again,  managing  to  appear  defer- 
ential. "Where  shall  I  send  them?"  he  asked,  inclining 
his  ear  toward  her,  and  in  a  low  hurried  voice  she  re- 
called the  number  he  had  forgotten.  "They  must  be 
sent  right  away,"  she  insisted,  "or  I  can't  get  them 
ready."  With  a  gallant  inclination  of  the  head  the 
butcher  promised  to  send  them  at  once. 

She  made  her  way  through  the  bitter-smelling  gloom 
and  as  she  pushed  the  screen  door  open  a  large  blue  fly 
rose  stupidly  and  bumped  against  her  face. 

She  was  obliged  to  go  to  the  grocer's  and  to  the 
bakery  and  when  she  approached  her  home  again  it 
was  already  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  May,  Win- 
nie's little  girl,  an  unhealthy  looking  child  with  lustrous 


12  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

wax-like  skin,  large,  vapid,  glazed,  blue  eyes,  and  thin, 
damp  curls  of  gray-blonde  hair  which  clung  to  her  hol- 
low shoulders,  rose  from  the  shadowed  doorstep. 

"Hello,  Grandma,"  she  called,  with  one  hand  smooth- 
ing the  front  of  her  faded  pink  gingham  dress,  while 
with  the  other  she  pressed  her  weight  against  the  grimy 
iron  balustrade. 

Mrs.  Farley's  eyes  frowned  wearily  but  a  conscien- 
tious smile  came  to  her  lips  that  were  twisted  a  little 
with  repugnance. 

"Where's  Mamma,  May?"  she  asked,  not  looking  at 
the  child.  "Is  she  lying  down?"  May  sucked  her  mid- 
dle finger  and  wagged  her  head  from  side  to  side.  Her 
smile  was  vacant  in  its  timorous  interest.  "Do  you 
want  to  take  one  of  my  bundles?"  May  nodded  her 
head  up  and  down  and  accepted  the  parcel.  Her  small 
arm  twined  around  it  loosely.  The  front  door  was  ajar, 
opening  into  a  familiar  smelling  twilight,  and  she 
hopped  after  her  grandmother  into  the  house. 


As  Mrs.  Farley  entered  the  darkened  bedroom,  Win- 
nie, in  a  cheap,  fancy  neglige  of  lilac  and  pink,  rose 
from  an  old  corduroy-covered  lounge  and  came  forward 
to  meet  her.  Winnie's  small,  pointed  face  was  haggard 
and  smeary  with  tears.  She  gazed  at  her  mother-in- 
law  with  a  childish  look  of  reproach. 

"0  Mamma  Farley,  I  know  Laurie  will  say  some 
terrible  thing  again !"  She  wrung  her  hands  that  were 
plump  through  the  palm  and  had  tapering  fingers  which 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  13 

curved  backward  at  the  tips.  "I  have  been  lying  here 
all  afternoon  worrying  about  what  may  happen  to- 
morrow!" As  she  spoke  she  glanced  beyond  her 
mother-in-law's  head  to  the  heavily  beveled  mirror  in 
the  old  bureau,  and  her  rapt,  tragic  face  became 
even  more  voluptuously  tragic  as  it  contemplated 
itself. 

"Now,  Winnie,  I  have  talked  to  Laurence  and  he 
realizes  perfectly  well  that  he  can't  say  what  he  thinks 
to  your  father.  He  will  let  bygones  be  bygones  just 
like  the  rest  of  us." 

"O  Mamma  Farley,  you  don't  know  Laurie!  And 
he  hates  Papa  and  Mamma  so  and  he  has  no  mercy  on 
me.  Sometimes  I  think  he  hates  me,  too !" 

Mrs.  Farley's  mouse-gray  hair  hung  in  straight  wisps 
below  the  edge  of  her  shiny  old  black  velvet  turban 
which  was  tilted  askew.  Her  withered  face  became 
harshly  kind.  She  had  more  firmness  when  she  was  with 
Winnie  than  in  the  presence  of  other  people. 

"You  must  remember,  Winnie,  that  I  have  known 
Laurie  considerably  longer  than  you  have.  Pull  your- 
self together  and  rest  and  don't  worry  about  this  any 
more.  I  know  it  will  be  all  right." 

May  had  followed  her  grandmother  and  now  stood 
awkwardly  and  apologetically  on  one  foot  watching  the 
two  women.  When  her  mother  glanced  at  her,  her  face 
quivered  a  little.  She  looked  at  the  floor  and  rubbed 
the  scaled  toe  of  her  slipper  against  the  raveled  blue 
nap  of  the  carpet. 

"I  am  going  to  make  a  cake  today."  Mrs.  Farley 
sighed  as  she  turned  toward  the  door.  "There's  my 


14,  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

usual  Saturday  baking,  too.  You'd  better  keep  still 
so  you  won't  be  feeling  worse  tomorrow.  If  I  get 
through  in  time  tonight  I'm  going  to  press  your  ^  el- 
low  dress  for  you.  I  want  you  to  look  pretty."  She 
left  the  room. 

Winnie  was  not  sure  that  she  wanted  to  look  pretty. 
She  was  a  little  ashamed  of  the  feeling  but  she  would 
have  liked  to  create  with  her  parents  the  impression 
that  the  Parleys  had  not  treated  her  well.  This  was 
from  no  desire  to  injure  the  Farley s  but  rather  from 
an  intuition  as  to  what  kind  of  story  of  the  past  years 
would  please  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Price  most  and  present 
their  daughter  in  the  most  interesting  light. 

May,  sidling  reluctantly  toward  the  hall,  still 
watched  her  mother.  Winnie's  eyes,  with  soft,  hostile 
possessiveness,  fastened  themselves  on  her  little  girl's 
face.  May  would  have  preferred  not  to  meet  her  moth- 
er's eyes  so  straight, 

"Come  here,  May!"  Winnie  sank  suddenly  to  her 
knees  and  held  out  her  arms.  May  walked  forward, 
seeming  not  able  to  stop  herself. 

"You  love  Mamma  anyway,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  May  said.  There  were  bubbles  of  saliva  on 
her  lips  because  she  would  not  take  her  finger  away 
from  her  mouth. 

" You  don't  think  I'm  selfish,  May?"  Winnie  shook 
May  a  little,  then  held  the  child  to  her.  A  shudder 
ran  like  a  live,  uncontrolled  thing  between  them. 

May  was  ashamed  of  the  shudder  as  if  it  had  been 
her  fault.  Winnie  drew  away  and  stared  at  her  daugh- 
ter. Winnie's  eyes  were  soft  and  wistful  with  hurt,  but 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  15 

underneath  their  darkness  as  under  a  cloud  May  saw 
something  she  was  afraid  of.  It  was  angry  with  itself 
ancav  demanded  that  she  give  it  something.  She  did  not 
know  what  to  give  it.  To  escape  it  she  wanted  to 
cry. 

Winnie  wanted  to  make  May  cry  but  hated  her  for 
crying. 

"You  must  love  me,  May !  I'm  your  mamma !  You 
must  love  me!" 

"I  do,"  May  said.  Her  eyes  were  black  with  tears, 
but  because  she  wanted  to  cry  she  could  not  keep  her 
lips  from  smiling  a  little. 

"As  well  as  you  love  papa  ?" 

May  felt  accused  of  something.  She  could  not  make 
herself  speak.  She  was  sorry  and  wanted  her  mother 
to  strike  her. 

"Then  you  love  Papa  best?  Oh,  May,  that's  cruel! 
You  mustn't  love  him  best !"  Winnie's  excited  manner 
was  contagious.  May  did  not  know  how  to  explain 
what  was  the  matter  and  suddenly  burst  into  tears. 
Winnie  moved  back  again  and  watched  the  little  girl 
with  her  arm  over  her  face,  crying. 

May's  sobs  lessened.  Without  knowing  what  had 
occurred,  she  felt  utterly  subjugated.  She  wanted  to 
love  her  mother,  but  the  soft,  angrily  caressing  eyes 
would  not  let  her.  .When  would  her  mother  let  her  stop 
crying?  There  were  no  tears  any  more.  It  was  hard 
to  cry  without  tears. 

"Poor  naughty  Mamma  doesn't  know  what  she's 
done!" 


16  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

May,  with  her  eyes  shut,  stole  out  a  hand  which 
trembled  on  her  mother's  face. 

"You  do  love  me  then?  May,  you  must!  You 
mustn't  love  Papa  best!" 

"I  don't!" 

They  kissed.  May  saw  that  her  mother's  eyes  were 
like  things  standing  in  their  own  shadows  and  loving 
themselves.  They  liked  being  sad.  They  yearned  over 
May's  face,  but  it  was  as  if  they  did  not  see  it  and  were 
yearning  for  themselves. 

"Go  play  with  Bobby  then,  dear,  and  don't  hurt  poor 
Mamma  like  that." 

"I  won't." 

May  ran  out  and  left  Winnie  looking  into  the  glass 
beyond  where  the  child  had  been.  Winnie  could  not 
understand  how  she  could  be  blamed  for  anything.  She 
was  so  innocent,  so  childlike.  At  one  time  Laurence 
had  been  able  to  discover  no  faults  in  her.  She  re- 
called the  early  months  of  their  marriage  and  remem- 
bered that  in  those  days  whenever  she  had  reason  to 
think  him  displeased  with  her  she  made  funny  little 
pictures  of  herself  with  her  hands  over  her  eyes  and, 
signing  them  "poor  Winnie,"  left  them  under  his  plate 
at  table  where  he  found  them  at  the  next  meal.  A 
pang  of  hatred  shot  through  her,  mingled  with  the 
recollection  of  caresses,  involuntary  on  his  part.  She 
felt  a  need  for  justifying  her  increasing  hardness  of 
heart  and  when  she  regarded  herself  sadly  in  the  mir- 
ror she  was  reassured.  It  was  as  if  in  the  way  her 
tousled  reddish  curls  shot  back  the  light  there  was  some- 
thing that  contradicted  blame. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE .  17 

It  was  four  o'clock.  Through  the  window  the  sun- 
shine on  the  row  of  houses  opposite  paled  their  red 
bricks  to  the  purplish  tint  of  old  rose  petals.  At  the 
end  of  the  street  where  the  square  began  bunches  of 
raw  green  foliage  floated  with  a  heavy  stillness  above 
the  smutty  roofs  steeped  in  light.  Behind  the  bright 
yellow-green  leaves  the  blue  sky  melted  into  itself  as 
into  its  own  dream. 

Laurence  came  home  early  on  Saturdays  and  Winnie 
decided  to  dress.  As  she  opened  the  front  of  her 
neglige  Bobby  entered  the  room  and  made  her  hesitate. 
He  sweated  and  panted,  dragging  his  feet  and  lugging 
with  both  hands  a  small  tin  bucket  filled  with  the  dirt 
he  had  dug  in  the  back  yard.  He  was  very  fat.  He 
wore  overalls  and  there  was  dirt  smeared  in  the  creases 
of  his  neck  under  his  firm  chin. 

"Bobby !    How  can  you !" 

"Dirt.  Nice  dirt,"  Bobby  explained.  Everything 
about  him  showed  that  he  belonged  to  himself.  His 
brown  eyes  were  passively  against  his  mother.  Grunt- 
ing laboriously,  he  stooped  and  began  to  empty  the 
rich  purplish  earth  on  the  clean-swept  blue  carpet. 
Winnie's  eyes  flashed. 

"Don't  you  dare  do  that,  Bobby!"  She  sprang  to- 
ward him,  trying  to  be  angry. 

He  did  not  mind.  He  kept  his  fat  shoulders  bent  to 
his  task. 

"Stop  it,  I  say!"  Only  a  few  grains  of  the  damp, 
dark  soil  remained  in  the  bright  bucket.  She  gripped 
his  elbow.  He  glanced  at  her,  his  solemn  eyes  twinkling 
with  a  kind  of  placid  malice.  His  grasp  on  the  tin 


18  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

handle  relaxed  and  he  sat  down  very  flat  on  his  plump 
bottom.  Winnie  dropped  down  beside  him  and  began 
to  laugh.  She  could  not  have  said  why  but  she  always 
felt  flattered  by  his  defiance. 

"Now  what  shaU  I  do?"  she  demanded.  They  stared 
at  each  other. 

"I'm  makin'  a  house,"  Bobby  said.  There  were  still 
harsh  lights  in  his  placid  eyes.  They  made  her 
ashamed  and  glad  that  she  was  his  mother.  Her  heart 
beat  very  fast  and,  escaping  from  an  emotion  which 
perplexed  and  disturbed  her,  she  threw  her  arms  about 
him  and  buried  her  face  against  his  cool  ear  and  his 
moist,  cool  cheek.  "Oh,  you  love  me !  You  love  me  !  I 
know  you  love  me!"  she  crooned,  rocking  him  against 
her.  "You  love  me  as  well  as  you  do  Papa,  I  know  you 
do." 

Bobby  wriggled.     "Don't  love  Papa!"  he  said. 

"But  you  must !  You  know  you  must."  There  was 
a  sob  in  Winnie's  voice.  She  was  sick,  she  said  to  her- 
self. That  was  why  she  wanted  to  be  loved. 

"  'Don't  love  Papa !'  You  must  love  Papa,  but 
love  Mamma,  too !  Oh,  Bobby,  poor  Mamma !"  Bobby 
tried  to  pull  away  again,  but  she  had  felt  some  one 
looking  at  them  and  she  would  not  let  him  go.  Bobby's 
breath  was  warm  on  her  half  bare  breast. 

She  turned  her  head,  guilty,  and  ready  to  cry  with 
hatred  of  her  guilt.  Laurence  was  in  the  doorway. 
She  knew  he  had  hesitated  there,  but  when  she  looked  at 
him  he  walked  straight  forward  past  her  with  the  air 
of  having  only  just  arrived. 

"Hello,"  he  said.    "Glad  you  are  up." 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  19 

"Look  what  Bobby's  done."    She  let  Bobby  go. 

"Into  mischief  as  usual,  eh?"  Laurence  said.  He 
walked  to  the  wardrobe  and  hung  up  his  hat.  He  had 
a  short,  bulky  figure,  the  head  and  shoulders  too  big 
for  the  rest  of  him.  He  had  thick  brown  hair,  coarse 
and  very  slightly  sprinkled  with  gray.  His  skin  was 
ruddy  but  did  not  look  fresh.  As  he  walked  with  his 
swaying,  awkward  stride,  he  held  his  head  forward  and 
a  little  to  one  side.  His  coat  sagged  on  the  hips  and 
was  caught  up  toward  the  back  seam.  His  hands  did 
not  appear  to  belong  to  him.  They  were  short,  dis- 
proportionately small,  and  very  delicate. 

"Bobby,  you  should  be  made  to  clean  up,"  Winnie 
said. 

Laurence  came  over  and  looked  at  the  pile  of  dirt. 

"May "  was  all  Bobby  said.  He  wanted  to  get 

away  from  his  father.  He  ran  out. 

"He's  made  a  mess,  all  right.  Can  I  help  you  up?" 
Laurence  leaned  to  her  and  she  gave  him  her  weak 
hands.  She  wanted  him  to  feel  them  weak  in  his.  His 
mouth  twitched  a  little  as  he  pulled  her  to  her  feet.  She 
hated  the  furtive  bitterness  that  was  in  all  he  did  for 
her,  yet  it  struck  a  self-righteous  fire  from  her.  She 
leaned  against  him.  She  was  frail  and  plaintive.  He 
seemed  to  stiffen  against  her  softness.  She  loved  her- 
self wistfully,  her  eyes  lifted  to  his  face. 

To  marry  her  he  had  given  up  the  prospect  of  a  ca- 
reer in  science.  An  expedition  to  Africa  with  one  of 
his  old  professors  had  been  abandoned.  At  that  time 
he  had  finished  college  and  was  working  for  a  scientific 
degree.  She  was  eighteen. 


20  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Winnie  felt  herself  still  to  be  good,  pretty,  and 
sweet.  She  had  a  right  to  something  beside  this  dis- 
tant tenderness.  She  knew  there  had  been  times  when 
simply  a  look,  a  glance,  a  word  from  her  had  carried 
him  off  his  feet.  After  these  occasions  there  were 
symptoms  of  self -contempt  on  his  part.  Yet  he  was 
proud  of  her,  she  was  certain.  Often,  without  his  being 
aware  of  it,  she  had  seen  him  betray  to  others  a  secret 
vanity  in  possessing  her.  Surely  it  was  no  disgrace  to 
yield  to  her! 

She  had  sometimes  caught  him  staring  at  her  ab- 
stractedly, yet  with  such  unyielding  curiosity  that  it 
made  her  shiver  to  remember  it.  She  clung  to  him  so 
that  he  could  not  look  at  her  like  that  now. 

"Do  you  feel  well  enough  to  dress  for  dinner?" 
Laurence  asked. 

"Yes,  Laurie— I'll  feel  all  right  if " 

"If  what?"    He  was  always  harsh  when  he  joked. 

She  twisted  the  button  of  his  coat.  His  eyes  nar- 
rowed against  hers  as  though  he  were  shutting  her  out. 
His  sweet,  harsh  lips  smiled.  He  gave  her  a  kiss  and 
moved  out  of  her  arms,  going  to  the  window. 

She  was  ill.  The  doctor  had  advised  another  oper- 
ation. Without  it  she  could  have  no  more  children. 
She  would  die.  She  looked  at  Laurence.  He  hurt  her. 
The  line  of  his  back  against  her  forced  her  into  herself. 
It  was  a  pain.  But  when  she  remembered  what  a  seri- 
ous state  of  health  she  was  in  most  of  her  bitterness 
passed  away  from  her.  An  expression  of  sweetness  and 
resignation  came  into  her  face.  Her  gray-green  eyes 
shone  in  tears  under  her  reddish,  disheveled  hair.  In 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  21 

her  illness  she  felt  superior  to  her  husband  and  was 
able  to  love  herself  more  completely. 

"I  heard  from  Mamma  today  again,  Laurence,"  she 
began  gently. 

"Yes?"  Laurence  had  hesitated  before  replying. 
She  wanted  him  to  turn  round.  He  kept  his  gaze  fixed 
on  the  street  beyond  the  open  window.  A  soft  current 
of  motion  stirred  the  bright  heavy  air  blue  with  whirl- 
ing motes.  She  could  see  his  hair  slowly  lifted.  Past 
his  head  the  sky  was  pale  with  light.  The  sunshine 
floated  green-white  from  the  dim  quivering  sky. 

She  kept  watching  his  shoulders  in  the  sagging  coat. 
"I  believe  you  had  rather  see  me  miserable  all  the  rest 
of  my  life !  Oh,  Laurence,  how  can  you !  I  can't  hurt 
Mamma  any  longer  even  to  please  you !" 

"To  please  me?"  Laurence's  voice  was  sharp  and 
sarcastic,  yet  it  did  not  reproach.  She  hated  its  tol- 
erance. 

"Of  course  I  know  I  can't  please  you !"  she  said.  She 
could  not  see  his  face  and  it  was  almost  unbearable  not 
to  know  whether  he  was  smiling  or  not.  She  felt  him 
going  farther  away  from  her  because  of  her  mother.  It 
was  cruel.  Now  whenever  he  did  not  want  to  touch  her 
he  said  she  was  sick.  She  hugged  her  sickness  but  she 
hated  him  for  talking  about  it. 

"Now,  Winnie !"  He  was  facing  her.  "I've  tried  to 
efface  myself  as  much  as  possible  as  regards  your  par- 
ents. If  you  weren't  nervous  and  ill  you  would  realize 
that  the  time  has  passed  for  reproaching  me." 

"Forgive  me." 

"There's  nothing  to  forgive." 


22  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

She  was  irritated  because  he  would  not  forgive  her, 
but  she  went  to  him  and  laid  her  head  against  his  coat. 
A  tremor  shot  through  him  when  she  touched  him  and 
she  did  not  know  whether  she  was  agitating  him  in  a 
manner  complimentary  to  herself  or  not.  But  some- 
thing in  her  hardened.  He  had  no  right  to  conceal  him- 
self. 

"Oh,  Laurie!"  They  were  still  against  each  other. 
She  felt  him  waiting  for  her  to  lift  her  head.  When 
people  married  they  became  one.  She  was  conscious  of 
feeling  cruel,  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  nothing 
to  reproach  herself  with.  "I  cut  myself  on  my  mani- 
cure scissors  to-day.  You  mustn't  be  stern  with  me." 
He  could  not  help  thinking  what  a  common  deceitful- 
looking  little  hand  she  had.  He  was  sorry  for  her. 

"What  a  tragedy !"  His  lips  rested  on  the  finger  an 
instant  without  giving  themselves.  They  quivered  a 
little.  An  emotion  that  was  unpleasant  and  at  the  same 
time  exhilarating  swept  through  her  and  seemed  to  lift 
her  from  her  feet.  She  thought  sadly  and  complacently 
of  how  much  she  had  suffered  for  him  already. 

"Where  is  May?"  Laurence  asked  suddenly.  He  felt 
that  in  kissing  Winnie's  finger  he  had  committed  him- 
self to  some  unknown  almost  sinister  thing.  He  re- 
sented the  stupidity  of  his  thought. 

"Downstairs,  I  suppose."  When  he  talked  of  May, 
Winnie  was  glad  to  leave  him.  She  felt  as  if  he  were 
lying  to  her. 

Laurence  moved  toward  the  door,  his  gross  body 
large  in  the  darkening  room.  Winnie  seemed  to  know 
each  detail  of  him  as  he  passed  into  the  dark  hall.  It 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  23 

was  painful  to  know  him  so  distinctly.  She  tried  in 
vain  to  revive  the  blurred  apperception  of  him  which 
she  had  had  in  earlier  days.  She  wanted  people  to 
see  him  as  she  had  seen  him  then.  His  rocking  walk 
humiliated  her  and  when  visitors  were  present  she  tried 
to  inveigle  him  into  sitting  in  an  armchair  where  his 
heavy  handsome  profile  would  be,  silhouetted  against 
the  light,  his  awkward  body  at  rest. 

I  don't  think  it  is  right  for  him  to  show  an  exag- 
gerated preference  for  one  child,  she  told  herself. 
He  doesn't  love  May!  He  exaggerates  his  feeling  for 
her  out  of  pique.  Winnie  could  not  forgive  him  for 
being  kinder  to  May  than  she  was. 

She  found  a  match.  Among  the  shadows  the  in- 
visible sun  made  patches  of  bronze  light.  In  the  dark 
the  match  flared  like  a  long  soft  wound  of  flame.  The 
gas  rushed  out  of  the  jet  with  a  thick  hiss  and  the 
flame  spread  into  a  fan.  It  was  a  wing  covered  with 
yellow  down,  blue  at  the  quill.  The  wind  sucked  at  it 
soundlessly. 

She  walked  to  the  window  which  the  gas  flame  had 
already  made  dark.  The  sky  was  green-blue.  Bunches 
of  black  leaves  on  the  trees  in  the  square  cut  the  dim 
fiery  horizon  into  twinkling  segments.  A  telegraph 
pole  rose  up  like  a  finger  higher  than  the  houses  and 
appeared  to  lean  heavily  against  the  quiet  beyond. 
Behind  flecks  of  cloud  putrescent  stars  shone  as 
through  flecks  of  foam  on  an  enchanted  sea. 

Winnie  pressed  her  head  against  the  cold  pane. 
Laurence,  herself,  old  age.  She  would  never  be  happy. 
A  peaceful  vanity  took  the  place  of  her  unrest.  She 


24  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

realized  an  ethereal  quality  in  herself  which  coincided 
with  the  whiteness  of  her  little  hands.  She  was  aware 
of  her  hands,  delicate  and  precious  against  her  breast. 
Her  breathing  tightened.  She  did  not  want  to  remem- 
ber the  ugliness  of  the  long  illness  she  had' had  and  to 
think  of  the  operation  which  threatened  her  threw  her 
into  a  panic.  When  people  talked  too  much  to  her 
of  death  she  only  saw  something  ugly  which  she  did 
not  understand.  She  wanted  to  get  away  from  it.  She 
felt  that  she  should  not  be  forced  to  think  of  death.  It 
did  not  belong  to  her.  If  people  only  loved  her  and 
allowed  her  to  be  herself  she  gave  everything. 

She  turned  away  from  the  window  and  walked  back 
to  the  mirror. 


Alice  was  the  last  to  reach  home  for  dinner.  She 
closed  the  front  door  briskly  after  her.  Its  thud  was 
muffled  and  at  the  same  time  emphasized  by  the  quiet 
of  the  empty  street  behind  it.  She  whistled  as  she  took 
off  her  hat.  The  tramp  of  her  feet  toward  the  dining- 
room  was  like  a  man's. 

"Hello,  Mamma  Farley.  Hello,  Laurie!  Glad  to  see 
you  down,  Winnie."  She  tweaked  Bobby's  ear. 

"Hello,  Aunt  Alice!"  His  voice  was  thick.  Like  a 
small  amused  Buddha,  he  looked  at  her. 

May  thought  Aunt  Alice  was  not  going  to  notice 
her,  but  Aunt  Alice  patted  the  little  girl's  head.  May 
was  terrified  and  relieved  when  the  big  hand  brushed 
her  hair  heavily.  She  smiled  at  Aunt  Alice,  but  Aunt 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  25 

Alice  did  not  see  her.  Then  her  face  grew  stupid 
with  perplexity  again  and  her  eyes  were  like  two  dark 
bright  empty  things;  and  under  her  frilled  apron, 
though  she  tried  to  hold  her  chest  in  tight,  you  could 
see  her  heart  beat. 

Mr.  Farley,  who  had  been  upstairs,  was  the  last  to 
enter  the  dining-room.  When  Alice 'saw  him  her  homely 
rugged  face  lit  with  peremptory  condescending  affec- 
tion and  she  said,  "Come  and  sit  by  me  this  minute, 
Papa  Farley.  Your  soup  is  cold.  What  do  you  mean 
by  being  so  late?" 

Mr.  Farley  was  always  embarrassed  by  Alice's 
officious  regard,  but  he  would  not  permit  himself  to 
become  impatient.  He  was  a  large  handsome  man 
ten  years  younger  than  his  wife.  His  hair  was  pre- 
maturely white.  There  were  heavy  lines  at  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  and  one  deep  fold  between  his  brows, 
but  otherwise  his  face  was  smooth  and  fresh.  His  lips 
were  compressed  continually  into  a  smile.  He  veiled 
his  disconcerted  rather  empty  blue  eyes  under  defen- 
sively lowered  lids.  He  gave  a  quick  glance  around 
the  brightly  lit  table. 

"Winnie's  improving.     That's  good." 

"Yes.  You  look  better,"  Alice  observed  to  her  sister- 
in-law.  Winnie  made  a  little  moue  as  she  met  the 
cheerful  but  accurate  scrutiny  of  Alice's  eyes.  Winnie 
felt  aggrieved  by  this  clearness  of  gaze.  In  resenting 
it  she  pitied  Alice,  who  had  coarse  sallow  skin  and 
large  hands  and  feet. 

"Winnie  has  every  reason  to  be  better.  Her  father 
and  mother  are  coming  to  dinner  with  us."  Mrs. 


£6  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Farley's  conversation  was  always  studiedly  general. 
Her  voice  was  weak  and  toneless  and  a  little  harsh,  but 
she  spoke  carefully  with  an  agreeable  intonation. 
While  she  talked,  her  stubby  uncertain  hand  grasped 
the  hilt  of  a  long  horn-handled  knife  and  the  thin 
flashing  blade  sunk  into  the  brown  crusted  beefsteak, 
so  that  the  beautiful  wine-colored  blood  spurted  from 
the  soft  pink  inner  flesh  and  mingled  with  the  grease 
that  was  cooling  and  coating  the  bottom  of  the  dish. 
She  laid  fat  brown-edged  pieces  of  pink  meat  on  the 
successive  plates  which  she  removed  from  a  cracked 
white  pile  before  her.  The  boiled  potatoes  were  over- 
done and  burst  apart  when  she  tried  to  serve  them. 
On  the  thin  yellow  skin  which  hardened  over  their  mealy 
insides  there  were  greenish-gray  spots. 

"I'm  glad,  Winnie.  We're  all  glad.  No  grievance 
is  worth  hugging  like  this."  Mr.  Farley  held  his  hand 
to  his  eyes  but  he  spoke  determinedly.  They  all  knew 
how  hard  it  must  be  for  him  to  accede  to  a  meeting 
with  Mr.  Price.  Laurence,  Alice,  and  Winnie  thought 
of  the  unkind  things  which  Mr.  Price  had  said  about 
their  family  scandal  at  the  time  of  the  break,  and  won- 
dered if  he  would  refer  to  it  again. 

Mr.  Farley  liked  to  do  hard  things.  If  his  resolu- 
tion hurt  him  he  kept  it  and  was  not  afraid  of  it. 
He  was  comfortable  in  the  bare  cheaply  furnished 
dining-room  because  he  felt  that  if  he  had  desired 
happiness  he  might  not  have  been  there ;  and  as  he  was 
very  punctilious  in  his  duties  toward  his  wife  he  was 
able  to  relieve  the  oppressive  sense  of  sin  which  he  had 
carried  with  him  during  most  of  his  life. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  27 

Winnie  and  Alice  were  both  watching  Laurence. 
His  face  was  bitterly  impassive.  On  a  former  occasion 
he  had  insulted  Mr.  Price.  His  present  resignation  was 
full  of  disgust.  Winnie  felt  that  he  was  giving  her 
to  her  mother. 

"You're  not  eating,  dear.  I  let  the  children  stay 
up  because  you  were  feeling  better.  I  thought  we  would 
celebrate."  Mrs.  Farley's  eyelashes'  were  whitish.  She 
carried  nose  glasses  fastened  to  a  gold  hook  on  the 
breast  of  the  black  waist  she  had  washed  herself  and 
ironed  so  badly.  She  squinted  when  she  smiled,  yet 
her  eyes  did  not  look  glad,  but  tired. 

"I'm  trying,  Mamma  Farley."  Winnie's  sweet  mouth 
was  tremulous.  She  was  glad  to  feel  it  tremulous. 
How  could  Laurence  give  her  over  simply  because  her 
heart  would  not  let  her  refuse  her  mother  any  longer? 

Alice  cut  her  beefsteak  with  brisk  emphatic  strokes. 
She  took  big  bites  and  chewed  them  with  an  air  of 
exaggerated  relish.  She  felt  herself  to  be  the  one 
person  in  the  world  who  understood  Laurence,  but  she 
knew  that  he  feared  and  resented  her  understanding. 
He  had  always  been  saturnine  and  had  lived  his  life 
alone.  At  college  he  paid  his  own  way  until  he  won 
a  medal  which  entitled  him  to  a  scholarship.  After 
this  he  devoted  himself  to  research  work  in  biology. 
Alice's  imagination  had  never  quite  encompassed  his 
impulse  in  marrying  Winnie  and  it  was  still  more  diffi- 
cult to  understand  why  Winnie  had  committed  herself. 
Even  in  the  days  of  courtship  Winnie  had  often  fled  in 
tears  from  her  lover.  She  was  ashamed  of  his  delib- 
erated vulgarities,  though  they  piqued  and  invited  her. 


£8  THE  NARROW  HOUSE  . 

Alice  could  not  comprehend  it.  Winnie  and  Laurence 
had  been  secretly  married.  When  the  Prices  com- 
manded their  daughter  to  leave  her  husband,  Laurence 
had  withdrawn  from  the  decision  and  told  her  to  do 
as  she  liked.  She  had  not  been  able  to  make  herself 
leave  him.  She  did  not  know  that  she  wanted  to.  Her 
parents  had  cut  her  off.  Ten  months  later  May  was 
born.  Laurence  took  his  scientific  knowledge  to  the 
laboratory  of  a  manufacturer  of  serums  and  began 
to  make  a  living. 

"I  used  up  most  of  your  five  dollars  on  some  hens 
today,  Alice. "  Mrs.  Farley's  conscience  was  heavy 
with  the  sudden  silence  at  the  table.  It  merged  into 
her  own  inner  silence  and  became  the  voice  of  herself 
from  which  she  was  anxious  to  escape. 

"Good." 

"You  work  so  hard,  Mamma  Farley.  Don't!" 
Winnie,  not  wanting  Mamma  Farley  to  work,  felt  sad 
and  nice  again  and  justified  before  Laurence. 

"I'm  used  to  it."  Mrs.  Farley's  mouth  puckered 
in  a  prim  tired  smile.  The  mouth  was  satisfied  with 
itself,  so  it  drew  up  like  that. 

"Don't  deprive  Mamma  of  the  joy  of  martyrdom, 
Winnie,"  Alice  insisted,  laughing  shortly.  Mrs.  Farley 
kept  her  withered  lips  smiling,  but  her  eyes,  dull  and 
confused  with  resentment,  felt  covertly  and  bitterly  for 
her  daughter's  face.  Alice  ate,  oblivious.  Mrs.  Farley, 
with  physical  irritation,  felt  Alice  eating  beefsteak  and 
swallowing  it  half  chewed. 

"You  leave  Mother  alone,  Alice.  Expend  your  be- 
nevolent energies  somewhere  else."  Laurence,  his  lip 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  29 

twitching  with  repression,  stared  hard  and  smiling  into 
Alice's  eyes.  Her  eyes  were  a  sad  brown,  a  little  dull. 
They  were  quiet  eyes  staring  back  unreproachfully  as 
though  they  understood  the  pain  of  his.  Laurence 
had  a  constant  unreasoning  impulse  to  defy  Alice. 

"Thanks,"  Alice  answered  with  tired  sarcasm. 

"I  don't  need  any  one  to  look  after  me?  Laurence," 
Mrs.  Farley  said,  her  voice  cheerful,  her  mouth  wry 
and  tight,  her  lids  drooped. 

Mr.  Farley  was  restless.  "Your  mother  is  right. 
We  must  give  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Price  a  royal  welcome 
tomorrow.  We  must  put  ourselves  in  their  place. 
There  are  two  sides  to  everything  and  it  takes  a  great 
deal  of  determination  to  make  the  first  overture. 
They've  done  that.  Now  it's  up  to  us."  Mr.  Farley 
was  always  afraid  that  the  incipient  quarrel  between 
Alice  and  her  mother  would  develop  plainer  propor- 
tions. He  did  not  see  the  group  about  him  clearly,  but 
a  helpless  smile  was  on  his  face.  In  terror  of  their 
unkindliness  he  showed  them  how  noble  he  was. 

There  was  another  silence.  Mrs.  Farley  could  not 
bear  it. 

"Has  Mr.  Ridge  decided  when  he  will  leave  for 
Europe,  Alice?"  Mrs.  Farley's  knife  and  fork  in  her 
weak  hands  clattered  against  her  plate. 

Alice  was  silent  a  moment.  "He  won't  leave  before 
next  month,"  she  said.  She  was  very  intent  on  her 
food.  A  flush  went  across  her  forehead  like  a  burn 
half  under  her  stringy  brown  hair.  Laurence  gave 
her  a  quick  half-pleased  glance  of  involuntary  inquiry. 
Winnie  stared  at  her  with  soft  sharpness. 


30  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

"Does  the  doctor  think  his  eyes  will  get  well?'*  Mr. 
Farley  asked,  too  clouded  with  his  own  concerns  to  be 
aware  of  the  tension  in  Alice's  face. 

"He  hopes  so.  It  is  nervous  strain  and  overwork 
mostly.  There  was  some  sort  of  infection,  but  that 
came  as  a  result." 

"Then  you'll  have  a  vacation.  He  can't  take  you  to 
Europe." 

"No,"  Alice  said  almost  angrily.  "I  know  where  I 
can  get  green  things  cheap,  Mamma.  That  market  on 
Smith  Street." 

"I  see  where  Ridge  has  been  attacked  by  all  his 
radical  friends.  He  seems  to  have  most  of  the  world 
down  on  him  for  that  last  book."  Alice  would  not  see 
Laurence's  sneer. 

"He's  too  good  for  all  of  them,"  she  said  sharply. 

Winnie  pursed  her  mouth.  It  was  an  effort  not  to 
laugh.  To  see  Alice  show  feeling  for  a  man  like  Ridge 
made  one  hysterical. 

Mr.  Farley  was  not  thinking  of  Alice  or  of  Horace 
Ridge.  Again  and  again,  as  if  in  spite  of  himself,  he 
allowed  his  gaze  to  rest  on  Winnie.  His  daughter-in- 
law  disturbed  him  and  if  he  could  avoid  it  he  never 
looked  her  in  the  eye.  If  he  could  keep  from  noticing 
the  throats  and  breasts  and  arms  of  women  he  was 
usually  all  right.  Then  if  he  were  obliged  to  see  them 
clearly  he  wanted  to  weep  with  the  pain  of  it  and 
when  tears  again  blurred  his  vision  he  was  relieved. 
Marriage  had  been  a  failure.  There  had  been,  he  felt, 
terrible  things  in  his  life.  Sex  had  invariably  placed 
him  in  the  wrong,  so  sex  must  be  the  expression  of  a 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  31 

perverse  impulse.  Tainted,  as  he  considered  it,  like 
other  men,  he  struggled  to  exalt  himself  into  a  vague- 
ness in  which  particular  women  did  not  exist. 

Winnie  despised  him,  but  she  would  not  admit  it  to 
herself. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  better!  So  glad!"  Mr.  Far- 
ley repeated  irrelevantly,  uncomfortable  because  he  felt 
the  sweetness  of  Winnie's  face  too  intimately. 

"Thank  you,  dear  Papa  Farley."  Winnie  laid  her 
hand  gently  on  his  big  fist  resting  on  the  table.  He 
withdrew  his  fingers,  but  as  he  did  so  gave  her  hand  an. 
apologetic  pat.  Her  little  fingers  felt  to  her  like  iron 
under  his  big  soft  hand.  She  knew  he  was  afraid  when 
she  touched  him.  Vulgar  old  man,  she  said  to  herself. 
She  despised  him  so  that  she  wanted  to  touch  him  again 
out  of  her  superiority.  "Dear  Papa  Farley !"  There 
was  helpless  moisture  in  his  eyes  which  he  could  not 
keep  from  her. 

"I  have  some  work  today.  I'll  forego  dessert." 
Alice  got  up  with  sudden  awkwardness  and  pushed  her 
chair  back.  She  smiled  at  them  all,  not  seeing  them. 

When  she  had  gone  they  were  pleased  and  yet 
ashamed  of  themselves,  knowing  why  she  went. 

"Did  you  get  your  deal  through,  Father?"  Laurence 
asked  impatiently  after  a  moment.  They  were  all  re- 
lieved of  the  silence  too  heavy  with  Alice. 


The  window  was  open  and  the  thick  dark  night,  com- 
ing warm  and  moist  into  the  bedroom,  made  Alice  feel 


32  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

as  though  some  one  breathed  into  her  face,  close  against 
her,  stifling  her.  The  yellow  gas  flame  rushed  up  from 
the  jet  with  a  stealthy  noise.  The  street  outside  was 
still. 

Alice  sat  down  before  her  typewriter  and  stared  at 

it.     Suddenly  her  full  breasts  heaved.     "Oh,  my  God!" 

She  buried  her  face.     Her  blouse  pulled  tight  across 

her  shoulders  as  she  stretched  her  arms  in  front  of 

"  her. 

Horace  Ridge  was  going  to  Europe  to  remain  two 
years.  He  might  get  well.  He  might  die.  His  eyes. 
She  felt  herself  lost  in  the  darkness  of  his  eyes. 

Then  something  broke  in  her.  I'll  tell  him.  1*11  go 
with  him. 

She  dared  not  see  herself  in  the  glass  opposite.  Once 
she  had  abandoned  herself  to  her  desire  to  be  beautiful. 
She  remembered,  with  a  horrible  sense  of  humiliation, 
the  hours  spent  behind  locked  doors  when  she  had  tried 
to  make  herself  into  something  men  would  like.  One 
day  she  had  done  her  hair  a  new  way,  and,  going  into 
the  living-room,  had  caught  Laurence's  ridiculing  eyes 
upon  her.  That  was  before  he  married  Winnie.  Alice 
realized  that  something  had  gone  wild  in  her.  She 
had  picked  a  paper  knife  from  a  table  and  hurled  it 
at  him  and  it  had  cut  his  hand.  His  face  had  turned 
scarlet,  then  white,  then  scarlet  again.  He  had  gone 
out  as  if  he  were  glad,  without  speaking  to  her. 

After  that  she  fixed  her  hair  the  old  way  and  avoided 
the  mirror.  She  did  not  want  to  realize  what  she  was. 
Nothing  existed  but  work. 

When  she  met  a  pretty  woman  in  the  streets  Alice 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  33 

had  a  sense  of  outrage.  A  self-righteous  tiame  burnt 
in  her.  Then  she  tried  to  be  patient  and  it  grew  cool. 
She  wore  heavy  careless  clothing.  She  was  generous 
to  Winnie.  Most  of  all  it  relieved  Alice  to  buy  pres- 
ents for  the  children. 

It  was  the  evening  before  when  she  came  home  from 
work  that  Bobby  met  her  in  the  hall.  Then  there  was 
jam  on  his  unperturbed  face.  "You  donna  bring  me 
sumpin*,"  he  reminded  her. 

She  held  out  a  top.  For  an  instant  a  cold  gleam  of 
possession  lit  Bobby's  still  eyes  in  his  fat  face.  He 
grasped  the  top  and  moved  a  little  away  from  her. 
His  air  was  suspicious.  When  he  was  sure  the  top 
was  his  the  cold  light  died  from  his  face.  He  was 
smooth  and  shut  into  himself  again.  He  was  like  a 
china  baby.  To  get  at  his  soul  one  needed  to  break 
him. 

"You  like  it,  eh?"  Alice  demanded.  Her  eyes  were 
more  violently  hard  than  his.  She  seemed  to  like  him 
against  her  will.  She  bent  down.  His  lips  brushed 
her  cheek  dutifully  and  she  felt  as  though  a  mark  had 
been  left  there.  She  imagined  it  a  spot  like  frost  with 
five  points  like  a  leaf. 

"Tan  I  go?" 

As  he  went  away  from  her  the  spot  burned  her. 

Inexorably  Bobby  descended  to  the  back  yard.  He 
seemed  to  know  how  futile  a  thing  Alice  was  compared 
to  himself. 

With  her  face  buried  on  the  oilcloth  cover  of  the 
typewriter  Alice's  thoughts,  all  confused,  ran  on  God, 
art,  suggestions  that  had  come  to  her  as  Horace  Ridge 


34  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

dictated  his  book.  Then  in  the  turmoil  she  could  see 
Horace  Ridge's  big  figure  still  against  the  light  of  the 
window  where  he  worked.  Alice  felt  herself  light,  clear 
and  vacuous,  absorbed  in  the  substantiality  of  this  pic- 
ture. 

Christ  died  on  a  cross.  She  felt  sick  as  with  disgust. 
Good  to  others.  Hate.  Winnie. 

Alice  could  not  bear  to  think  of  the  children  born  of 
Winnie.  Bobby  born  of  Winnie.  She  could  not  think 
of  him.  Virgin  Mary.  There  seemed  something  secret 
and  awful  in  maternity — some  desecration.  She  felt 
the  child  helplessly  intimate  with  the  mother's  body. 
He  did  not  want  her.  Other  religions.  No  time  to 
read  up.  Buddha.  Sex.  Marriage.  Laurie  was  an 
atheist.  He  wanted  to  be  perverse. 

Must  be  something.    Nice  pictures.    Art.    Beauty. 

When  she  said  beauty  to  herself  her  heart  was  hard 
with  resentment.  Long-haired  men.  Rot.  They  did 
not  understand. 

She  cried  a  few  moments  thinking  of  nothing,  but  it 
was  as  if  something  unseen  grew  strong  with  her  weak- 
ness. It  drank  her  misery  and  left  her  dry.  She  got 
up,  feverish,  and  stood  before  the  glass,  hating  herself. 
Her  waist  had  pulled  apart  in  front  and  she  saw  the 
swell  of  her  big  firm  breast.  Her  face  was  heavy 
and  ugly  with  rebellion,  sallow,  the  eyes  inflamed. 

She  saw  her  breast.  Strange  shiver  of  curiosity 
about  herself.  Why  did  it  hurt  her  to  see  her  breast? 
She  covered  it  up. 

She  looked  at  herself,  into  her  hot  eyes.  Something 
cried  inside  her  for  mercy,  but  she  would  not  take  her 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  35 

hot  angry  eyes  from  the  face  in  the  glass.  No  use  to 
beat  about  the  bush  and  pretend  to  be  highfalutin'. 
Wanted  what  Winnie  wanted.  Disliked  Winnie.  She 
had  a  corroding  sensation  in  her  throat  as  though  she 
tasted  metal.  Then  shame  mounted  hot  over  her  as 
though  it  were  swallowing  her.  She  resisted  being 
swallowed.  Her  skin  quivered  against  the  hot  cold  en- 
gulfing sense  of  degradation.  She  was  like  a  bird  alive 
in  a  snake's  body. 

Something  tightened  in  her  soul,  and  the  emotion  she 
had  experienced  the  moment  before  flowed  away  from 
her.  Receding,  it  left  a  hardened  accretion  like  petri- 
fying lava  flowing  down  cold  from  a  volcanic  crater. 

Still  she  stared  at  herself.  Homely  woman.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  her  veins  crept  like  snakes  along 
her  arms.  Life  stealing  upon  one  through  the  veins. 
Stealthy  life  running  red  and  silent  in  its  bitterness 
through  the  body.  Where  to  go  to?  Horace  Ridge. 
He  has  any  woman  he  wants.  Famous  man.  Me. 

She  felt  slightly  intoxicated  by  a  frank  acknowledg- 
ment of  her  absurdity.  Her  horror  of  herself  crept 
over  her  body,  shameful  because  of  no  use. 

I  can't  endure  it ! 

Her  wrist  pressed  against  her  teeth  and  made  a 
mark,  but  no  blood  came.  She  wanted  to  tear  away 
her  flesh,  but  it  seemed  to  resist  her.  It  was  full  of 
hurt  where  her  teeth  had  pressed.  Life  sucked  at  her 
like  a  wild  beast. 

She  turned  from  the  mirror  and  hurled  herself  face 
downward  sobbing  on  the  bed.  Her  body  oppressed 
her. 


36  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

She  cried  a  long  time.  The  work  would  have  to  go. 
At  last  she  crept  off  the  bed  and  undressed  herself  and 
put  out  the  light,  but  she  lay  awake,  and  the  darkness 
remained  electric  and  horrible.  She  closed  her  eyes 
and  tried  to  shut  out  its  intimacy. 

Mamma  and  Papa  Farley.  What  was  wrong  be- 
tween them?  Sex.  Horror.  She  tried  to  keep  her 
thoughts  from  integrating.  Child.  She  bit  her  wrist 
again  and  turned  over  in  bed.  Too  proud  to  hate 
Winnie.  Other  girls.  Their  faces  opened  against  hers. 
They  were  white  and  flowering  in  the  dark.  Eyes  open, 
waiting  to  receive  men.  She  shivered.  One  must  think 
about  these  things.  Winnie's  maternity.  Bobby  seemed 
slimed  all  over  with  Winnie.  To  wash  Bobby  clean — 
clean  of  Winnie! 

Alice  was  still  awhile.  She  was  dark  inside,  but  the 
dark  grew  calm.  She  began  to  go  over  things  very 
clearly.  What  was  passion?  Fourteen  years'  old. 
Pain.  Words  written  on  back  fences. 

I  am  glad  to  be  out  of  it.    Poor  little  Winnie. 

Outside,  cool.     Cool  ache  of  being  outside  life. 

Horace  Rjidge's  settled  form,  quiet  against  the  danc- 
ing window.  He  turned  in  his  chair.  Kind  eyes  behind 
glasses.  He  could  keep  people  outside  him  because  he 
had  all  they  could  give  him  already  there  behind  brown 
agate  eyes. 

Albert  Price — short  trousers,  face  like  a  girl's.  They 
knew. 

She,  twenty-nine  years  old,  outside  their  lives.  She 
did  not  want  her  body.  If  she  could  only  make  Horace 
Ridge  understand  that  she  had  no  body !  Clothes  made 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  37 

her  virgin  when  she  was  a  mother.  If  she  could  un- 
dress herself  he  would  know  that  she  was  a  mother. 
Clothes  made  him  forty-three  years  old,  radical  critic 
of  life  and  manners,  ruined  health,  blindness  incipient. 
She  wanted  to  undress  him  to  show  him  how  little  he 
was. 

Oh,  dear!  She  cried.  It  hurt,  but  less.  Oh,  dear! 
Life  was  a  muddle.  When  one  ceased  to  desire  there 
was  quiet,  bitter  and  beautiful  quiet.  Laurence, 
Winnie,  Mamma  and  Papa,  far  away  from  her — 
pathetic  with  distance.  Horace  Ridge  far  away  from 
her.  Her  loving  him  cool.  Nothing.  She  wanted 
nothing.  Heart  in  the  breast  coolly  melted  like  water 
in  a  still  cup.  In  the  bed  in  the  darkness  her  still  heart 
reflected  the  shadows  of  hot  summer  pavements,  brick 
houses  with  fronts  beaten  flat  and  dull  by  sun,  the  mo- 
ment before  nightfall  when  lights  burst  from  the  theater 
fronts  and  the  streets  were  gay  with  people  in  pale 
colored  clothes.  Then  the  heart  was  still,  was  cool — 
was  water  into  which  the  darkness  came  gratefully 
covering  the  loneliness*. 


Alice  was  sorry  for  herself  because  she  had  a  mother 
like  Mrs.  Farley.  Poor  Papa  Farley.  Alice  loved  him 
and  despised  him.  She  did  not  love  her  mother. 

On  Sunday  when  Alice  went  downstairs  Mrs.  Farley 
had  on  her  gray  taffeta  dress  and  was  intent  on  setting 
the  house  right.  She  walked  stooped  a  little  forward, 
her  shoulders  drawn  together.  The  eyeglasses  that 


38  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

hung  on  her  chest  twinkled.  Short  straight  soft  hairs 
floated,  unpinned,  at  the  nape  of  her  neck.  When  she 
turned  her  head  the  withered  skin  made  fine  swirls  of 
wrinkles  about  her  throat.  She  walked  very  fast  about 
the  parlor  putting  the  chairs  in  place.  She  took  short 
steps  so  that  her  haste  appeared  feverish.  The  occa- 
sion seemed  to  fill  her  with  a  kind  of  worried  happiness. 

Mr.  Farley  had  put  on  his  frock  coat.  He  had  no 
dignity  in  it. 

"Don't  work  too  hard,  Mother."  He  went  into  the 
dining-room  smiling  in  bland  anticipation  of  whomever 
should  be  there. 

Alice  was  at  table.  She  was  ashamed  of  her  red 
eyes  and  barely  glanced  up.  "What  would  Mamma  do 
if  we  forgot  for  one  day  to  object  to  her  working 
so  hard?" 

Mr.  Farley  spread  his  coat-tails  and  sat  down  on 
the  oak  chair  with  the  imitation  leather  seat.  Alice's 
remarks  about  her  mother  made  him  feel  guilty. 

"We  should  have  gotten  up  earlier  so  your  mother 
wouldn't  have  the  dishes  to  worry  about." 

"I'm  going  to  wash  'em,"  Alice  said  shortly. 

It  was  a  hot  day.  The  clouded  sky  was  a  colorless 
glare.  A  thick  wind  stirred  the  ragged  awnings  up- 
stairs before  the  bedroom  windows.  For  a  moment  the 
sun  came  out  as  though  an  eye  had  opened.  The  house 
fronts  were  a  pale  bright  pink.  Dust  made  little  eddies 
in  the  empty  Sunday  street.  The  awnings  lifted,  then 
hung  inert  like  broken  wings.  When  a  wagon  passed 
you  could  hear,  above  the  rattle  of  the  wheels,  the 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  39 

muffled  thud  of  the  horse's  feet  striking  the  soft 
asphalt. 

May  was  on  the  front  steps.  She  wore  a  very  stiffly 
starched  white  dress  and  a  pink  sash,  wilted  and 
wrinkled  by  many  tyings.  Her  hair  was  brushed  back 
very  smooth  and  gathered  away  from  her  forehead 
with  a  flapping  bow.  Pale  with  interest,  her  small  face 
turned  toward  the  corner  of  the  square  as  she  watched 
for  the  Prices  to  come. 

In  the  parlor,  Winnie  stood  out  of  sight  behind  the 
freshly  laundered  curtains,  and  watched  too.  Laurence 
had  left  the  house.  She  wondered  if  he  were  going  to 
avoid  her  parents. 

As  the  time  passed  the  sun  disappeared  again  and 
shadows  flowed  into  the  street  which  was  as  gray  and 
still  as  water. 

When  the  equipage  with  shining  lacquered  sides 
flashed  into  the  empty  place  May  looked  at  it  bewil- 
dered, but  Winnie  had  seen  it  through  the  window  and 
recognized  her  parents. 

The  carriage  drew  up  before  the  house  and  the  wheels 
scraping  the  curb  made  a  long  rasping  sound.  The 
chestnut  horses  were  fat.  Their  harness  twinkled. 
They  wriggled  the  stumps  of  their  clipped  tails  against 
the  cruppers  that  constrained  them.  On  their  breasts 
where  the  circingles  had  rubbed  and  on  their  flanks  and 
buttocks  the  hair  was  darkened  and  matted  with  lather. 

May  was  afraid  and  proud  because  the  beautiful 
horses  stood  before  her  home.  They  stamped.  A  shiver 
ran  along  their  satin  bellies.  Their  breasts  and  fore- 
legs quivered  with  tension  as  they  jerked  their  heads  in 


40  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

the  check  reins  and  pressed  the  street  with  harsh 
hoofs  below  their  rigid  ankles.  Watching  them,  May 
uttered  a  little  cry  of  terror  and  delight;  but  she 
thought  some  one  had  heard  her  and  she  clapped  her 
hand  over  her  mouth. 

The  footman  had  jumped  from  his  place,  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Price  were  descending  from  the  carriage. 

Indoors,  Winnie  felt  her  heart  swell  with  a  pain  of 
pride.  These  were  her  parents.  All  these  years  she 
had  been  robbed  of  this ! 

"Oh,  Mamma  Farley!  They've  come!  They've 
come!  I  thought  I  should  never  see  them  again!" 
Winnie's  smooth  fingers  clutched  Mrs.  Farley's  stiff 
nerveless  palm.  "What  shall  I  do?  It  hasn't  been  my 
fault,  has  it,  Mamma  Farley?"  Winnie's  soft  relent- 
less gaze  clung  to  her  mother-in-law's  face. 

Mrs.  Farley  nervously  desired  to  evade.  Winnie 
made  her  feel  guilty  of  the  situation  with  which  she 
had  nothing  to  do. 

"Now,  dear !  Now,  dear !  We  won't  talk  about  who's 
to  blame.  Could  your  mother  have  written  the  note 
she  did  if  she  intended  to  reproach  you?" 

"But  Papa And  Laurence  hasn't  come  back 

yet !  He  and  Papa  will  quarrel  again !  You  shouldn't 
have  let  him  do  this  way,  Mamma  Farley !  Oh,  feel  my 
hands!  They're  so  cold!"  Her  eyes,  large  and  dark, 
shone  with  a  languid  and  deliberate  excitement.  She 
wished  that  Alice  were  in  the  room  to  see  her.  Wry 
thoughts  of  Laurence.  Resentment  in  Winnie's  mind 
was  like  grit  in  something  that  otherwise  would  have 
moved  oiled. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  41 

"What  must  I  do,  Mamma  Farley?  Shall  I  go  to 
the  door?"  Winnie  wrung  her  hands. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  meet  her  first.  She  would 
like  to  speak  to  you  before  the  rest  of  us  come  in." 

"Oh,  I  can't !    How  can  Laurence  leave  me  like  this  ?" 

Mrs.  Farley,  called  on  again  to  explain  Laurence, 
made  some  meaningless  gestures;: — clasped  and  un- 
clasped her  hands.  Her  fingers,  pressed  hard  as  they 
intertwined,  made  her  knuckles  glow  white. 

"Now,  dear !    Now,  dear !" 

"You  must  go  with  me !  I  can't  bear  it  if  Papa  says 
anything  to  me  about  Laurence!  What  shall  I  do?" 
Winnie  dragged  Mrs.  Farley  across  the  brightly  swept 
parlor  carpet  and  into  the  hah1. 

May  had  already  opened  the  front  door.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Price  stood  against  the  light  of  the  street,  their 
faces  in  shadow.  Behind  them  the  coachman  was  turn- 
ing the  carriage  away.  The  footman  sat  very  straight 
with  his  arms  folded.  The  wheel  spokes  flashed.  The 
polished  black  sides  glistened. 

Mrs.  Price's  flat  face  was  very  white  above  her  ele- 
gant black  dress.  There  were  fine  lines  of  strain  under 
her  pale  eyes  staring  wide  through  her  delicate  pince- 
nez.  The  nostrils  of  her  flat  nose  quivered  a  little.  She 
had  a  thin  narrow  body  and  broad  flat  hips.  She  was 
breathing  quickly.  On  her  drawn  lips  there  was  a 
labored  smile. 

Mr.  Price  removed  his  beaver  hat  and  revealed  the 
top  of  his  broad  flat  head,  bald  and  bright,  above  his 
hard  eyes  which  were  like  cloudy  stones  of  pale  blue. 
His  thick  under  lip,  thrust  sullenly  forward,  showed 


4£  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

under  his  thin  yellow-gray  mustache.  There  was  no 
color  anywhere  about  his  face.  Only  under  his  chin 
where  he  had  not  shaved  clean  you  might  detect  his 
beard  by  a  colorless  shining. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  and  hesitation. 
"Winnie !"  Mrs.  Price's  voice  shook.  "Mamma !" 
They  lay  in  each  other's  arms. 

Mrs.  Price's  fragile  hand  moved  uneasily  over  her 
daughter's  hair. 

Mr.  Price,  gruff  and  uncomfortable,  his  face  un- 
moved, said,  "Where  do  I  come  in?" 

Winnie  reached  out  and  patted  her  father's  arm. 
He  took  her  hand.  She  kissed  him,  not  wanting  to. 
He  made  her  think  of  herself.  She  wanted  to  relax  in 
joyous  agony.  Lifting  her  soft  strange  eyes  to  her 
mother,  Winnie  was  double,  knowing,  as  before  a 
mirror,  how  she  looked.  Sweet  to  have  people  unkind 
when  you  could  forgive  them! 

But  behind  everything  the  recollection  of  Laurie  in- 
truded harshly. 

In  the  background  Mrs.  Farley  stood  uneasily,  and 
May,  afraid  to  enjoy  the  family  happiness,  yet  unable 
to  leave,  hopped  from  one  foot  to  the  other  with 
subdued  exclamations,  her  face  alternately  blank  with 
confusion  or  atremble  with  response. 

"Don't  cry,  Winnie,  dear.  We  are  all  so  glad,  Mrs. 
Farley."  Mrs.  Price  pushed  Winnie  gently  aside  and 
put  out  a  frail  hand,  determined,  though  it  shook  a 
little.  Mrs.  Farley's  fingers  were  clumsy,  fumbling  for 
Mrs.  Price.  Mr.  Price  shook  hands  in  a  fat  abrupt 
fashion.  They  passed  into  the  house. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  43 

"Not  too  much  emotion.  Not  too  much  emotion," 
Mr.  Price  grumbled.  May  retreated  before  him  won- 
deringly.  No  one  had  noticed  her. 

Then  Winnie  said,  "This  is  May,  Mother." 

They  all  stopped.  May  stopped  inside  herself. 
"Dear!"  Mrs.  Price  had  kissed  her.  May  knew  the 
kiss  to  be  stale,  dry,  with  a  bitter  middle-aged  smell, 
and  was  ashamed  of  knowing.  TTie  dry  bitter  kiss 
drank  of  May's  coolness.  She  was  dumb  under  the 
caress  of  the  sick  hand. 

The  parlor  was  clean  and  gloomy. 

"Sit  down,  sit  down,"  Mrs.  Farley  said.  "I — 
we "  She  was  trembling  all  over.  She  wept  be- 
cause of  the  rightness  of  things.  "Such  a  glare!" 
She  tottered  to  the  shade.  Her  silk  dress  rustled. 

"There,  Mrs.  Farley.  We're  all  right.  An  experi- 
ence like  this  is  good  for  all  of  us.  Christ  has  taught 
us  to  forgive  our  enemies  and  when  we  do  I  believe  we 
never  have  cause  to  regret  it." 

Mr.  Price  sat  down  awkwardly  and  coughed  severely 
into  his  mustache.  His  furtive  gaze  traveled  malig- 
nantly about  the  shabby  room. 

"How-d'ye-do,  Mrs.  Price?  Mr.  Price?"  Alice 
walked  heavily  in  among  them.  Mrs.  Price  turned 
around,  disconcerted.  Their  hands  touched.  Alice 
seemed  to  take  charge  of  things.  Mrs.  Price  suddenly 
felt  weak  and  was  obliged  to  seat  herself. 

Winnie  was  annoyed.  She  went  up  to  Alice  plain- 
tively. "Oh,  I'm  so  happy,  Alice !"  She  wept. 

Alice  was  still,  like  a  warm  rock.  "We're  happy  to 
see  you  happy." 


44  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

As  Alice  remained  gruff  and  unmoved  Winnie  became 
more  humble.  "You  don't  look  like  it.  Please  let  me 
be  happy,  Alice.  I  can't  if — if — : — " 

"Nonsense,"  Alice  said. 

Winnie  smiled  mistily  at  everybody. 

"Come  sit  by  me.  I  want  to  see  my  dear  little  girl." 
Mrs.  Price  disliked  Alice,  who  remained  hard  and  kind 
while  Winnie  cried  with  happiness.  "You're  not  well, 
I  know.  Mrs.  Farley  wrote  me.  There,  there.  We 
must  begin  to  take  better  care  of  you."  Mrs.  Price 
pulled  Winnie  to  her.  Winnie's  eyes,  rapacious  with 
humility,  were  lifted  again. 

Mr.  Farley  came  in,  casting  a  rapid  glance  around 
the  group.  His  smile  was  patient.  Fear  made  him 
tired. 

"Well,  well — we're  so — Mrs.  Price."  He  stopped 
before  her,  not  sure  that  she  would  shake  hands  with 
him.  She  gave  him  her  finger  tips  and  he  took  them 
miserably. 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  you  all  enjoy  seeing  Winnie  happy," 
Mrs.  Price  said.  She  was  cold  and  kind.  Mr.  Farley 
knew  what  she  was  thinking  of — Helen  out  in  Kansas 
City.  They  had  spoken  of  the  old  scandal  in  objecting 
to  Winnie's  marriage. 

"Mr.  Price?" 

"Hello,  Farley.  Hello."  Mr.  Price  got  up  reluc- 
tantly. His  hand  clasp  was  a  condescension. 

Mr.  Farley  had  given  his  hand  limply.  His  mouth 
bent  with  acceptance.  His  smile  was  still  tolerant  but 
a  little  bitter,  and  he  did  not  look  up. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  45 

"Winnie  comes  first,  Farley.  Time  to  disagree  about 
other  things  later." 

"I  hope  we  are  through  with  disagreements." 

"Yes,  Farley,  I  hope  we  are.    Ahem." 

Mr.  Price  sat  down  again  abruptly. 

"I'm  so  happy,  Papa  Farley !" 

Winnie's  eyes.  He  shuddered,  trying  not  to  see  them, 
fearful  that  he  would  forget  to  smile.  "I'm  glad  you 
are,  dear." 

Winnie  clapped  her  hands  and  turned  once  more  to 
her  mother.  "Bobby !  You  haven't  seen  Bobby !  Oh, 
he's  the  dearest He's  upstairs  taking  a  nap." 

Alice  stood  defiantly  in  the  center  of  the  gloomy 
room,  her  feet  apart,  her  stout  hips  set  out.  "Want 
me  to  see  if  he's  awake  ?" 

"Suppose  we  all  go  out  and  leave  Winnie  alone  with 
her  parents  for  a  few  minutes,"  Mrs.  Farley  suggested, 
her  voice  quavering  slightly.  She  puckered  her  lips 
and  frowned,  smiling  about  her  at  the  group.  When 
she  stood  up  her  gray  taffeta  dress  settled  slowly,  with 
a  calm  sound,  in  folds  about  her.  The  hem  lay  out  on 
the  carpet.  She  had  a  scrap  of  yellow  lace  at  her 
neck  and  above  it  in  her  withered  loose  skin  you  could 
see  the  flutter  of  a  pulse. 

"We  certainly  should,"  Alice  said. 

"Why,  that's  very  nice.  I  don't "  Mrs.  Price 

looked  around,  uncertain,  well-bred. 

"Yes,  yes.  Come,  May."  Mrs.  Farley  took  May's 
small  cold  hand,  moist  in  her  dry  one.  Alice  went  first 
and  Mr.  Farley  shuffled  after  the  others,  head  bent, 
smiling,  not  sure  why  they  were  going  out. 


46  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Mrs.  Price  had  risen  with  her  husband  and  stood, 
sad  and  calm,  watching  them  leave.  Life  had  wrung 
her,  but  she  had  grown  sure  in  compromise.  There 
was  dignity  in  her  sureness. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Price  shortly,  "I  don't  see  that 
husband  of  yours  about !" 

Winnie  started  tremulously.  She  smiled  at  him  with 

a  relaxed  mouth.  "Papa,  dear,  I  know "  She 

gulped,  still  smiling. 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  know.  I  suppose  he's  run  away 
from  us." 

"He'll  probably  be  in  later,  won't  he,  dear?"  Mrs. 
Price's  transparent  smile  was  a  thin  shield  guarding 
Winnie  from  her  father. 

Winnie  tried  to  speak.  Then  she  gave  way  and  flung 
her  white  arms  about  her  mother's  throat.  "Oh, 
M-mother !" 

"There,  there.    I  know." 

"Confound  him!"  said  Mr.  Price  very  savagely,  bit- 
ing his  mustache. 

"Please,  Perry!" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  That's  all  right.  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  lose  my  temper." 

"Don't  cry,  Winnie.     Sweet  Winnie." 

"What  I  want  to  know  is  whether  that — whether  he 
refused  to  meet  us  or  not?"  Mr.  Price  asked. 

"Oh,  Mother— Papa— I " 

"Don't  cry,  Winnie.  It's  all  right.  Your  father 
has  resolved  to  overlook  things  and  if  he  can  bring 
himself  to  do  that  about  what  has  already  happened 
this  last  little  rudeness  certainly  won't  matter." 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  47 

"But  he  said  he — he  would  come.'* 

"He  did,  eh?    And  then  went  out." 

"Now,  Perry — please?"  Replying  to  his  wife's  pale 
smile,  Mr.  Price  coughed  ambiguously. 

"You  need  never  be  afraid  of  your  father  conducting 
himself  in  anything  but  a  generous  manner,  Winnie. 
I  wish  you  might  have  been  at  church  last  Sunday 
when  he  presented  the  new  organ  !" 

"I  know,  but " 

"That's  all  very  well,  dear."  Mrs.  Price's  voice  had 
a  disappearing  quality.  It  floated  and  drifted  from 
her  lips  and  her  words  died  away  from  her  like  the 
shed  petals  of  a  flower. 

"I  want — I  want  you  and  Papa  to  let  me  be  happy ! 

I — I Sometimes  I  think  nobody's  happy.  Mamma 

and  Papa  Farley  are  not.  I " 

Above  Winnie's  bowed  head  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Price  ex- 
changed glances. 

"They  don't  deserve  to  be !"  Mr.  Price  snorted  after 
a  minute. 

Winnie  glanced  up.  Mrs.  Price's  face  twitched  with 
worry. 

"Now,  Perry,  dear,  please?  Remember!  We  de- 
cided not  to  speak  of  that  again."  She  nodded  toward 
the  closed  door  of  the  hall.  "I  suppose  by  now  you 
have  heard  all  about  Mamma  and  Papa  Farley,  Winnie 
— all  the  things  that  worried  your  father  so,  that  he 
tried  to  tell  you  about  when  you  and  Laurence  ran 
away — but  living  here  with  them  as  you  are,  I  think  it 
best  for  us  to  try  to  forget  it.  Mrs.  Farley  is  a  very 


48  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

long-suffering  woman  and  has  borne  her  lot  very 
patiently." 

Winnie  wanted  to  ask  more.  She  hid  her  face  again. 
Once  Laurie 

"Laurence  never  talks  of  it,  and  you  know  before, 
when  Papa  tried  to  tell  me,  how  it  was — you  wouldn't 
let  him.  What  was  it,  Mamma?" 

"Do  we  need  to  talk  about  it,  dear?"  Mrs.  Price 
stroked  Winnie's  hair. 

"It  was  the  talk  about  the  town.  I  don't  see  why 
she  shouldn't  hear  it !  I  wanted  her  to  know  it  all 
before  so  that  she  could  understand  my  objection  to 
such  a  match." 

"But  we  never  understood  clearly  how  it  was  our- 
selves, Perry.  You  know  when  Winnie  was  married  and 
you  wanted  to  tell  her  I  thought  it  was  no  fit  topic  for 
a  young  girl.  I  said " 

"Yes,  I  know  you  said,  but  if  she  had  known  all  about 
the  thing  from  the  start  she  might  have  made  a  better 
match  for  herself.  At  any  rate,  she's  old  enough  to 
hear  things  now." 

Winnie  looked  up  and  stood  away  from  her  mother. 
"Please,  Papa,  Laurie " 

"Yes,  Perry,  it  isn't  right  to  Winnie.  We  mustn't 
feel  this  way  about  her  husband." 

Winnie's  little  face  was  hard  and  a  small  soft  fire  of 
malice  burned  in  her  eyes.  Though  she  resented 
Laurence,  'she  was  with  him  against  her  parents.  She 
would  have  exulted  in  making  them  feel  his  inexorable- 
ness.  Because  he  was  strong  against  them  she  seemed 
to  feel  herself  inside  his  strength,  corroding  it  with 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  49 

her  weakness.  Mingled  with  her  desire  to  swallow  her 
world  was  a  vague  terror  of  her  loneliness  when  it 
should  happen. 

"Well,  that's  all  right,  Vivien.  I'll  say  nothing  about 

her  husband,  but  that  father-in-law  of  hers It 

seems  to  me  the  more  she  knows  about  him  the  better!" 

"Perry,  but  in  their  house !"  Mrs.  Price  was  weary. 
Her  smile  seemed  to  hurt  her.  Her  white  hands  shook. 

Winnie  was  drawn  up  taut,  cautious  like  a  savage 
on  a  spoor. 

"Perhaps  Father  ought  to  tell  me  all  of  it,"  she  said. 

"But  not  now !    Not  here !    You  said  you  knew " 

"I  did  know  there  was  some  reason  Mamma  and 
Papa  Farley  didn't  get  along.  I  knew  there  was  a 
woman " 

"Yes !  That  miserable  woman  he  was  entangled  with 
in  that  filthy  affair.  I  don't  remember  whether  I  told 
you  that  he  tried  to  leave  Mrs.  Farley  and  live  with 
her.  Helen — Wilson — something — Mrs.  Wilson.  The 
husband  had  him  up  as  co-respondent.  Then  they  dis- 
covered she  was  going  to  have  a  child."  Mr.  Price 
spoke  gruffly  and  hurriedly  in  a  low  voice  and  chewed 
his  mustache. 

Winnie  trembled  with  excitement.  Mamma  and 
Papa  Farley.  Laurie.  She  felt  crafty  and  sure  of 
herself.  Why  had  Laurie  never  told  her  all  of  this? 
He  did  not  like  to  have  her  speak  of  it. 

"Perry,  we  can  not!  We  must  not!  For  Winnie's 
sake!" 

"Did  Papa  Farley  and  the  woman  have  the  child, 
Papa?" 


50  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

"Oh,  Winnie,"  Mrs.  Price  protested,  "how  can  you 
ask  such  things!" 

Mr.  Price,  hands  in  pockets,  rose  on  his  toes  and 
sucked  his  mustache  in  and  out. 

"They  committed  every  sin  which  the  flesh  has  been 
heir  to  since  the  fall  of  man,  so  I  suppose  they  had  a 
child  too." 

"You  don't  know?" 

"I  have  it  on  very  good  authority  that  they  did." 

"The  child,  of  course,  was  spirited  away." 

"And  where  did  the  woman  go?" 

"Out  West.  To  Kansas  or  Texas.  Something." 
Still  he  rose  on  his  toes.  The  flavor  of  his  mustache 
seemed  to  give  him  a  peculiar  relish. 

"Oh,  Papa,  how  awful !  I  didn't  know  it  was  as  bad 
as  that."  Winnie  dilated  with  her  secret.  A  quick 
passionate  resolution  of  triumph  shot  through  her. 
Her  eyes  shone  tragically. 

"Winnie — my  dear — you  are  in  no  state  to  hear 
things  like  this,"  Mrs.  Price  said.  There  was  a  light 
knock  at  the  door.  "Psh !" 

Mr.  Price  started  a  little,  but  continued  to  elevate 
and  lower  himself  on  his  toes  and  stare  at  the  ceiling. 
Winnie  clutched  her  hands  to  her  breast. 

"Come  in."    Mrs.  Price  lifted  her  trembling  voice. 

Alice's  face  in  the  doorway.  None  of  them  could 
look  at  her.  Winnie  met  the  face  at  last. 

"Bobby's  awake." 

"Isn't  that  nice.    Now  I  will  see  the  dear  baby." 

"Yes,  Mother.    Come,  Father."    Winnie,  with  a  high 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  51 

dreamy  expression  of  conscious  pain,  followed  Alice 
out. 


The  bedroom,  dark,  cluttered  by  too  great  an  at- 
tempt at  coziness,  had  grown  a  little  shabby.  The 
yellow  shades  were  drawn  under  the -lace  curtains.  The 
blue  carpet  showed  here  and  there  a  warp  of  colorless 
cords.  On  the  sofa  the  velvet  and  plush  pillows  were 
embroidered  with  mottos  and  flowers.  There  were  a 
heavy  bureau,  an  old-fashioned  bed,  and  Bobby's  crib. 
May  slept  in  the  nursery  across  the  hall. 

Bobby,  his  eyes  still  opaque  with  sleep,  sat  upright 
in  bed,  a  dreamy  look  of  disapprobation  on  his  face. 

Mrs.  Price  could  say  nothing  for  a  moment,  then, 
"How  lovely !  How  lovely !  What  a  beautiful  healthy 
child!" 

Winnie  caught  him  in  her  arms. 

Mrs.  Farley  moved  forward,  feebly  shocked.  "He's 
too  heavy !  Oh,  you  mustn't  do  that,  Winnie !" 

Winnie  turned  and  gave  him  to  her  mother.  Bobby's 
fat  body  was  sodden  and  relaxed  in  his  grandmother's 
arms.  Mrs.  Price's  resigned  hands  moved  over  him 
agitatedly.  "He's  so  beautiful!"  Feeling  ashamed, 
she  knew  not  why,  she  kissed  him.  "Look,  Perry !" 

"Fine  boy,"  said  Mr.  Price. 

Winnie  danced  about.    "I  knew  you'd  think  so." 

Mr.  Farley  waited  sheepishly,  approving  with  his 
patience. 

"We're  all  proud  of  him,"  said  Alice  shortly.  Mrs. 
Price  glanced  up  with  a  start.  "He's  a  fine  grand- 


52  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

son/'  she  declared  after  a  minute.  There  was  some- 
thing defiant  in  the  way  she  stroked  his  hair,  but  she 
remained  very  gentle  and  ladylike. 

May  stood  to  one  side,  quivering.  She  wanted  them 
to  see  her  but,  for  fear  they  might  send  her  away,  kept 
very  quiet.  When  Bobby  did  not  want  to  be  petted  she 
was  uncomfortable  and  when  he  liked  it  she  was  happy 
too. 


Laurence  had  come  into  the  house  and,  finding  the 
lower  floor  deserted,  had  gone  upstairs.  He  stood  in 
the  bedroom  doorway.  Winnie  saw  him  first.  She 
was  disconcerted  for  a  moment.  A  little  shiver  of  ex- 
citement went  through  her.  But  she  recovered  herself 
as  she  gazed  at  him  and  felt  small  and  strong. 

"Laurie  !"  She  made  a  cooing  sound  of  pleasure. 
She  turned  to  her  mother.  "Oh,  Mamma,  I  want  you 
and  Laurie  to  hug!" 

Mrs.  Price's  face  was  stained  with  faint  color.  She 
grew  brittle  and  tense  in  her  uncertainty.  Holding 
Bobby  on  her  arm,  she  put  her  hand  out.  It  was  as  if 
she  put  her  hand  between  herself  and  Laurence.  "I 
hope  we  both  love  Winnie  enough  to  overlook  things," 
she  said. 

"I  hope  so,  Mrs.  Price,"  he  agreed,  coming  forward, 
his  lids  drooping  as  if  to  shut  out  the  painful  sight 
of  them  all.  He  smiled  in  shame.  They  shook  hands. 

"Now,  Papa!"  Winnie  led  her  father  forward  by 
his  coat  sleeve. 

"How-d'ye-do,  Farley?     How-d'ye-do?"     Mr.  Price 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  53 

was  bluff  and  reluctant.  Their  hands  barely  touched. 
Laurence  kept  his  glance  on  the  carpet. 

"Now  I  am  so  happy!"  Winnie  clung  to  her  hus- 
band's arm.  Her  softness  sank  into  him.  He  felt  that 
if  he  lived  he  must  harden  himself  against  it.  When 
she  finally  freed  him  he  drew  a  deep  unconscious  breath. 
Then  he  forced  his  somber  eyes  full  on  Mrs.  Price's 
face.  "I  am  thankful,  for  Winnie's  sake,  that  you  and 
Mr.  Price  made  up  your  minds  to  this,"  he  said. 

"We  won't  reproach  ourselves  with  the  past,  Mr. 
Farley,"  Mr.  Price  interrupted.  He  would  not  allow 
his  wife  to  be  addressed  in  lieu  of  himself. 

"I've  never  reproached  myself,  Mr.  Price,"  Laurence 
answered  coldly.  Still  he  looked  away. 

"I  don't  doubt  it,  Mr.  Laurence  Farley!  I  don't 
doubt  it !"  Mr.  Price's  manner  was  full  of  secret  scorn. 
He  rocked  on  his  toes  and  sucked  his  mustache  ends 
again. 

"The  babies  are  dears,"  Mrs.  Price  said.  "Bobby  is 
wonderful." 

Laurence  regarded  Bobby.  "Sit  up.  Hold  your 
head  up.  Don't  act  as  though  you  were  half  asleep." 

"Don't  be  cross  with  him,  Laurie!"  Winnie  pouted. 
Laurence  was  torn.  He  must  refuse  to  praise  Bobby 
as  the  Prices  praised  him.  Laurence  felt  that  he 
could  not  protect  his  child  against  the  approbation  of 
his  enemies.  May  sidled  up  to  her  father.  When  she 
touched  him  he  did  not  look  down  at  her,  but  put  his 
arm  about  her.  He  held  his  shame  of  her  close  in  his 
heart  like  a  wound  that  he  would  not  let  be  seen.  He 
stroked  her  hair. 


54  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

"Bobby  is  too  heavy  for  you,  Mrs.  Price,"  Mrs. 
Farley  protested,  coming  forward  with  an  air  of  fur- 
tive protest. 

"No,  no!"  Mrs.  Price,  exaggeratedly  polite,  held 
him  closer  and  smiled.  The  smile  made  Mrs.  Farley 
helpless.  Mrs.  Price  knew  it. 

Mr.  Farley  had  been  outside  the  group.  Now  he 
moved  nearer  Mrs.  Price  and,  leaning  forward,  shook 
Bobby's  inert  fist.  "You  like  your  old  grandad,  eh? 
You  like  your  old  grandad?" 

Bobby  scowled  on  them  all  and  put  his  thumb  to  his 
mouth. 

"What  did  I  tell  you  about  sucking  your  thumb?" 
Laurence  demanded  sternly. 

Winnie's  sweet  eyes,  covert  with  knowledge,  gloated 
on  her  husband's  face.  "Don't  be  cross  to  him, 
Laurie,  when  everything's  so  nice." 

"Stop  sucking  your  thumb."  Laurence  took  Bobby's 
thumb  down  from  his  mouth. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  leave  him  alone.  You'll  nag  him 
to  death.  All  this  ohing  and  ahing  is  enough  to  drive 
him  to  something  worse  than  sucking  his  thumb,"  Alice 
said  shortly. 

Laurence  gave  her  a  swift  contemptuous  glance  of 
anger,  but  controlled  himself.  "That's  a  good  boy," 
he  said  more  kindly  as  Bobby  lifted  himself  straighter 
and  stared  around. 

"Oh,  everything's  so  nice !  I  was  so  afraid  it  wouldn't 
be!"  Winnie  sighed  again  with  happiness.  Laurence 
passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  the  delicate  hand  that, 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  55 

below  the  coarse  sleeve  of  his  coat,  was  like  the  revela- 
tion of  a  secret. 

"You  didn't  think  your  husband  was  going  to  re- 
fuse to  shake  hands  with  me,  I  hope?"  Mr.  Price 
demanded.  His  unsmiling  joviality  was  terrifying. 
No  one  could  ever  say  exactly  when  he  became  serious 
and  he  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  tremors  of  uncer- 
tainty that  stirred  in  his  hearers.  He  enjoyed  disturb- 
ing them. 

"We  are  exercising  mutual  forbearance,"  Laurence 
put  in  quietly.  In  the  irritation  of  Mr.  Price's  presence 
something  was  slipping  from  Laurence's  grasp.  It  was 
only  half-heartedly  that  he  continued  to  hold  himself. 

"Forbearance  toward  me!  I  hope  you  don't  think 
I  want  you  to  exercise  forbearance  toward  my  religious 
views,  young  man !  Has  he  come  to  his  senses  since 
you  married  him,  Winnie?" 

Winnie  smiled  feebly.  Laurence  looked  at  the  floor. 
His  lip  twitched. 

Mr.  Price  seemed  to  wish  to  drown  out  the  echo  of 
his  words  in  the  ears  of  those  present  and  began  to 
talk  fiercely  to  Bobby.  "Fine  child.  Father  not  going 
to  raise  you  up  to  be  a  prizefighter,  is  he?  Wouldn't 
surprise  me.  I  hope  your  mother'll  bring  you  up  as  a 
Godfearing  man.  She  mustn't  leave  your  education 
regarding  the  next  world  to  your  father.  You'd  better 
take  him  in  hand,  Winnie."  He  stared  at  his  daughter 
with  his  vague  hard  eyes. 

Laurence  felt  his  parenthood  raped.  "Winnie  and 
I  have  come  to  a  perfect  understanding  regarding 
Bobby's  education,"  he  sneered. 


56  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Mr.  Price  glanced  up  at  Laurence.  "Have,  eh? 
Ain't  you  an  atheist?  Last  time  I  talked  with  you, 
didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  an  atheist  ?" 

"I  did,  Mr.  Price.  I'm  afraid  I  am  deficient  in  tact." 
Smiling,  Laurence  lifted  eyes  in  which  the  light  of  hate 
was  drawn  inward  toward  some  obscure  point  of  agony. 

Mrs.  Price  set  Bobby  on  the  floor.  His  legs  were 
stiff  with  being  held  and  he  made  a  few  steps  away  from 
her  uncertainly  like  a  drunkard.  "The  dear  child!" 
she  murmured  uneasily.  Her  quiet  smile  was  over  her 
face  like  the  still  surface  of  a  pool  filled  underneath 
with  little  frightened  fish. 

"Tact,  eh?"  Mr.  Price  was  not  sure  what  the  re- 
mark meant,  but,  to  give  himself  time,  permitted  a 
knowing  twinkle  to  creep  into  his  eyes.  He  rose  on  his 
toes.  "If  you'll  leave  off  trying  to  set  up  science  in 
the  place  of  God  we'll  overlook  your  lack  of  tact,"  he 
conceded  finally. 

Laurence  bit  his  lips.  He  assumed  an  irritating  air 
of  indulgent  amusement.  It  was  irresistible.  He  dared 
not  look  at  Winnie.  "I've  sworn  to  preserve  a  rever- 
ential silence  in  regard  to  all  of  your  pet  fallacies, 
Mr.  Price." 

"My  pet  fallacies,  eh !  The  years  haven't  taught  you 
respect  for  the  opinions  of  your  betters,  then?" 

"Pve  never  met  them,"  Laurence  said.  Mr.  Farley 
coughed.  Mrs.  Price  had  called  Bobby  back  and  was 
talking  to  him  in  a  low  tone,  very  intently.  Mrs. 
Farley  talked  to  Bobby  too.  Alice  made  with  her 
tongue  a  clicking  sound  of  impatience.  Laurence  had 
moved  away  from  May.  She  watched  the  men  in  con- 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  57 

troversy.  Her  mouth  hung  stupidly  open.  She  had  a 
shivering  white  face  and  her  eyes  were  all  pupil.  She 
looked  as  though  she  had  drowned  herself  in  the  dark- 
ness of  her  own  eyes. 

"Please,  you  two!"  Winnie  laced  and  unlaced  her 
fingers. 

"You  haven't  ?  You  know  when  you're  in  the  wrong, 
do  you?" 

"On  the  rare  occasions  when  that  happens,"  Lau- 
rence said  with  an  ostentatious  affectation  of  good 
humor. 

"And  you  haven't  found  out  yet  that  you're  com- 
'mitting  a  sin  when  you  set  yourself  up  in  opposition 
to  Divine  Truth!  You're  very  complaisant,  young 
man !  Very  complaisant !  But  I'll  tell  you  that  Natu- 
ral Science  is  out  of  date.  The  Darwinists  and 
Haeckelists  and  the  rest  of  the  dirty  crew  have  to  come 
crawling  back  to  the  Creator  they  denied,  with  their 
tails  between  their  legs." 

"You're  making  a  dangerous  admission  in  acknowl- 
edging such  an  appendage,  Mr.  Price."  Smiling  at  the 
floor,  Laurence  reached  out  and  drew  May  to  him 
again.  He  defied  them  with  his  loyalty  to  her. 

"Am  I?  The  devil  had  a  tail  before  he  ever  heard 
of  Darwin,  seems  to  me!"  Mr.  Price  was  still  uneasy, 
but  swelled  a  little  with  the  readiness  of  his  retort. 

"Laurie!"  Winnie  patted  Laurence's  sleeve,  her 
voice  humble. 

The  humility  in  her  voice  inferred  something  in  him 
which  outraged  his  self-respect.  "And  I  haven't  a 


58  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

doubt  that  as  in  the  present  case  the  ass  had  ears !"  he 
said  sharply. 

Winnie  began  to  cry. 

"I'll  go,  Winnie,"  he  told  her.  It  was  inevitable. 
He  had  been  that  way  before  with  Mr.  Price.  His  hand 
fell  from  May's  shoulder.  He  walked  out.  In  the 
silence  the  group  could  hear  the  thick  beat  of  his  feet 
as  he  descended  the  carpeted  stairs,  and  the  reverbera- 
tion of  the  front  door  which  he  slammed  as  he  passed 
into  the  street. 

Mr.  Price's  face  was  a  dull  red.  He  puffed  out  his 
cheeks.  "That's  what  it  comes  to !"  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders  unutterably  and  turned  with  a  gesture  of  de- 
parture and  dismissal. 

"Please  don't  go,  Father!" 

Mrs.  Farley  was  wringing  her  hands.  As  May 
watched  she  seemed  to  be  weeping  from  her  own  eyes 
her  mother's  tears. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  take  Laurence  seriously, 
Mr.  Price,"  said  Alice. 

Mr.  Price  lifted  both  hands  with  the  palms  out.  "I 
don't !  I  don't !  God  forbid  that  any  one  should  take 
that  foolhardy  blasphemy  seriously." 

Mr.  Farley  passed  his  hand  over  his  face  as  though 
to  brush  away  a  cloud.  His  eyes  were  uneasy,  his  smile 
one  of  apology.  "Laurence  will  regret  it  as  soon  as 
he  is  in  the  street." 

"Regret !  Regret's  not  the  right  emotion  to  recall 
that  kind  of  talk.  I  take  no  account  of  what  he  said 
to  me,  but  no  one  can  go  about  in  contempt  of  the  God 
who  made  him  and  not  suffer  for  it." 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  59 

"I  know "  Mr.  Farley  hesitated.  His  lips 

quivered  a  little. 

"Oh,  I  knew  I  couldn't  be  happy !"  sobbed  Winnie. 

Mrs.  Price  took  her  daughter  in  her  arms.  "Now, 
dear,  your  father  has  made  up  his  mind  to  be  forbear- 
ing. He  won't  go  back  on  his  word." 

"No,  I  won't  go  back  on  my  word,  but  I  don't  know 
whether  I  can  ever  bring  myself  to  the  point  of  coming 
into  this  house  again.  Not  when  that  man's  here." 

"You  oughtn't  to  take  Laurence  seriously,  Mr. 
Price,"  Alice  repeated.  "I  think  we  ought  to  forget 
about  him  and  not  spoil  Winnie's  day." 

"I  can't  forget  about  him,  Alice!"  Winnie  lifted 
her  head  indignantly  from  her  mother's  shoulder. 
Deep  in  her  imagination  Winnie,  in  a  lace  nightdress, 
was  putting  her  arms  about  Laurie's  neck.  Her  veins 
swelled  strong  and  taut  with  confidence.  She  resented 
the  injustice  of  being  forced  to  choose  between  Lau- 
rence and  her  parents.  Because  of  other  things  she 
could  not  forgive  she  would  pardon  him  the  day's  scene, 
but  she  would  not  pardon  her  parents  yet. 

"It's  all  right,  dear.  Miss  Farley  don't  mean  that. 
She  only  wants  us  to  forget  the  things  your  husband 
said  to  your  father  and  I  think  that  is  exactly  right. 
After  he  considers  it  I  am  sure  he  will  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  acted  wrongly  and  be  sorry  too.'* 

"I've  had  so  much  trouble,"  Winnie  went  on. 

"Come,  Bobby,  let  us  all  go  downstairs  and  play 
games  and  help  Mamma  to  forget  her  troubles."  Alice 
jerked  Bobby's  hand.  Leaning  on  her  mother,  Winnie 
followed.  Mrs.  Farley,  her  eyes  red-rimmed  with 


60  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

unshed  tears  of  perplexity,  shambled  after,  her  dress 
rustling  and  disturbing  her  desire  for  self-effacement. 
Mr.  Farley  descended  the  stairs  with  finger  tips  gliding 
along  the  rail,  smiling  the  abased  smile  of  a  blind  man. 
May,  hesitating  on  each  step,  dragged  unnoticed  a  long 
way  behind. 


In  the  early  morning  the  cloudy  air  had  a  texture 
like  wet  wool.  The  sky  radiated  colorless  heat  like  a 
pool  of  warm  water  which  one  saw  into  from  the 
depths.  Work  had  not  yet  begun  on  the  corner  house, 
but  in  front  of  it  dangled  platforms  suspended  from 
pulleys.  The  vacant  windows  smeared  with  paint  gave 
the  house  the  look  of  a  silly  face  smeared  with  weeping, 
an  expression  of  tortured  immobility. 

Alice,  on  her  way  to  work,  had  just  emerged  from 
her  front  doorway.  As  she  descended  to  the  street  she 
watched  ahead  of  her  a  tall,  very  thin  woman  in  a  worn 
silk  blouse  and  an  old  skirt  that  still  smacked  of  an 
ultra  mode.  The  woman  dragged  beside  her  a  very 
little  boy  in  tight  pants  and  a  gay  shirt.  The  little 
boy,  swinging  by  her  hand,  leaned  heavily  away  from 
her  to  pull  a  small  red  wooden  wagon  after  him. 

When  the  woman  turned  her  head  Alice  saw  her 
bright  blonde  hair  combed  in  glossy  and  salient  puffs, 
a  cheap  and  unconscious  defiance  above  her  wasted 
face  and  her  breasts,  sucked  dry  on  her  flat  body, 

Alice  walked  after  her.  Life.  Thinking  of  money. 
In  the  hot  bed  they  touched  each  other.  Rent  due. 
The  child  began  to  cry. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  61 

Old  maid  barricaded  behind  ridicule.  Coolness  of 
being  outside.  Loneliness  like  a  cool  wound. 

The  woman  went  on.  Taller,  narrower  in  distance, 
with  her  long  limbs  and  graceful  stoop  she  resembled 
a  sculptured  angel.  Tomb.  Apartment.  The  woman 
walked  before  Alice  into  a  narrow  marble  doorway. 
The  stone  rolled  back  and  the  angel  went  into  the  tomb. 
Haggard  and  bitter  face.  A  little  rouge  put  on  care- 
lessly. Despair.  No  one  knows  why. 


Laurence  had  come  in  during  the  night  and  gone  to 
sleep  on  the  box  couch  without  disturbing  Winnie.  In 
the  morning  she  was  the  first  to  awaken. 

It  had  rained  before  dawn.  The  hot  sun  floated 
outside  the  window  in  voluptuous  mists.  The  white 
curtains  seemed  stained  with  the  pinkish-brown  light. 
They  swayed  and  parted  and  between  their  folds  the 
moist  air  flowed  heavily  from  the  steaming  street. 

Winnie  could  hear  the  staccato  tap  of  a  hammer  on 
the  house  next  door.  Horses'  hoofs  rang  on  the 
asphalt  with  a  flat  sound. 

The  curtains  opened  like  lips  and  made  a  whisper- 
ing noise.  Then  Winnie  could  see  the  wet  bronze  roof 
opposite  shining  blankly  against  the  faint  bright  sky. 

The  room  was  crowded  with  the  atmosphere  of  two 
people  who  have  quarreled.  They  were  oppressed  by 
their  consciousness  of  each  other.  Through  the  dark- 
ness of  his  shut  lids  Laurence,  only  feigning  sleep,  tried 
to  ascend  above  the  close  room  and  his  almost  intoler- 
able awareness  of  Winnie's  presence. 


62  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

She  had  seen  his  lids  flutter.  Tired  and  sweet,  she 
regarded  him  mercilessly.  She  could  see  how  tense  the 
lines  of  his  body  were  under  the  couch  cover  he  had 
drawn  up  over  his  feet.  His  lids,  pressed  tight  to- 
gether, twitched  a  little. 

"Laurie!" 

With  a  helpless  feeling,  he  opened  his  eyes. 

Winnie's  heart  beat  combatively,  triumphantly. 
"I've  been  lying  here  looking  at  you,"  she  said,  her 
plaintive  pout  begging  him  to  infer  everything. 
"Bobby's  still  asleep." 

Bobby  lay  in  his  little  bed  relaxed  like  a  drowned 
child.  His  lips  were  pale.  His  face  damp  with  the 
heat.  His  shock  of  blonde  hair  fell  back  on  the  pillow 
away  from  his  head.  Winnie,  beside  her  big  baby, 
abandoned  herself  to  a  sense  of  dependence  which  she 
felt  him  to  justify. 

"Yes?     I  must  have  slept  very  hard."    In  an  efforl 
to  hide  his  surprise  Laurence  responded  quickly  to  h< 
overture.     He  sat  up,  smiling  elaborately,  and  beg* 
rubbing  his  eyes. 

Winnie  would  not  let  him  escape  through  such  casual- 
ness.  "Are  you  still  angry  with  me,  Laurie?"  She 
lifted  herself  among  the  pillows  and  rested  on  on< 
elbow.  There  was  a  terrible  youngness  about  her  soft, 
hungrily  uplifted  face,  her  thin  neck,  the  collar  bones 
showing  below  her  white  throat.  Her  eagerness  was 
too  vivid.  He  was  conscious  of  her  rapacious  youth. 
It  made  him  tired.  Youth  demanding  of  him  life  an< 
more  life.  Winnie  was  ill,  but  there  was  no  rest  foi 
them  even  in  her  pain.  He  felt  old  and  afraid  of  her, 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  63 

as  though  he  would  never  be  able  to  get  up  from  the 
couch. 

"Angry  with  you?  Was  I  angry  with  you?"  He 
covered  his  eyes.  His  lips,  smiling  below  his  fingers, 
were  deprecating.  He  stood  up  slowly  and  lifted  his 
trousers  from  a  chair.  He  felt  ridiculous  to  himself 
putting  them  on. 

"Laurie?  Please?  Don't  be  angry  with  me  for 
wanting  to  see  Mamma !" 

He  was  hurt  without  knowing  how  she  hurt  him. 

"Please  kiss  me,  Laurie,  dear!  Don't  be  angry!  I 
can't  bear  to  have  you  angry  with  me!"  Her  eyes, 
strangely  defenseless,  opened  softly  to  his.  Their  soft- 
ness enveloped  him  and  drew  him  down  against  the 
harsh  little  sparks  of  reserve  that  burnt  in  their 
depths. 

"Kiss  you?"  he  said.  He  took  her  fingers  in  his  and 
kissed  them.  His  lips  were  grudging.  He  still  smiled. 
"Don't  accuse  me  of  being  angry  with  you,  Winnie.  I 
want  you  to  have  your  mother  back." 

"But  I  want  you,  too.  Kiss  me !  Really!  Not  like 
that." 

He  leaned  forward  and  his  lips  brushed  hers.  But 
she  would  not  let  him  go.  She  was  so  slight,  pulling 
him  down,  that  he  could  not  resist  her.  She  pressed  her 
mouth  hard  against  his  face. 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me." 

"I'm  not  angry — wasn't  angry."  Each  word  was  a 
little  shake  to  loosen  himself  from  her. 

"You  won't  talk  to  Papa  that  way  again?" 


"I  won't  give  myself  the  opportunity.  I  won't  see 
him  again." 

"Oh,  Laurie  I" 

He  withdrew  above  her,  making  himself  paternal. 
"You  must  be  sensible  about  this  thing,  Winnie.  It's 
all  right.  I  want  you  to  see  and  be  with  your  parents. 
If  I  avoid  them  it  will  be  only  for  your  sake.  You're 
not  well,  Winnie.  You're  a  little  unreasonable." 

"I  can't  bear  being  sick!  Oh,  Laurie,  I  won't  be 
operated  on !  I  can't  bear  it !"  Her  voice  was  passion- 
ate. She  shrank,  looking  smaller  among  the  big  pil- 
lows. He  pushed  her  into  the  limbo  of  invalidism.  She 
did  not  know  how  to  get  out.  His  kindness  was  a  wall 
between  them. 

He  smoothed  her  hair.  She  was  crushed  under  his 
tolerant  hand  smoothing  away  curls  from  her  tear-wet 
face.  "Shall  I  tell  Mamma  Farley  you  are  ready  for 
your  breakfast?" 

She  gazed  at  him.  Her  eyes  hurt  him.  They  stabbed 
him  through  the  silence  she  made.  "Laurie,  I  think 
we  are  going  to  be  so  happy  and  then  all  at  once  when, 
you  talk  about  my  being  sick  you  seem  so  far  away. 
You  do  love  me?"  She  clung  to  his  arm. 

"Of  course." 

"Then  kiss  me  again."  He  kissed  her.  Her  terrible 
hunger  hurt  and  confused  him.  He  would  rather  not 
have  seen  her  thin  throat  that  suggested  a  young 
swan's,  her  pointed  chin,  her  eyes,  and  the  reddish  hair 
which  had  slipped  in  confusion  about  her  shoulders. 
The  room,  filled  with  her  knick-knacks,  choked  him — 
her  clothes  on  a  chair,  some  soiled  satin  slippers,  the 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  65 

mirror  from  which  she  seemed  always  to  shine,  her  child 
asleep — hers  and  his  together.  He  could  not  explain 
himself — felt  that  he  was  growing  hard.  He  was 
ashamed  of  not  loving  her  enough.  Ashamed  of  the 
strength  it  gave  him  to  know  that  he  was  not  for  her — 
now — that  her  health  was  keeping  them  apart. 

"I  want  us  to  be  happier  than  anybody,  Laurie! 
Your  father — you  never  talk  to  me  about  it!  That 
woman  out  West  who  had  a  child  by  him!  It's  so — 
so  terrible!"  She  felt  his  resentment  of  her  persistent 
reference  to  it.  There  was  something  drunken  in  her 
which  made  her  sling  out  words  that  were  not  wanted. 
She  regretted  a  little  this  waste  of  her  hoarded  knowl- 
edge, but  at  the  same  time  she  was  glad.  He  did  not 
want  to  talk  of  it.  She  felt  injured  because  he  did  not 
want  to  talk  to  her  of  it.  She  leaned  against  him. 
The  tears  ran  from  her  blind  uplifted  eyes. 

"That's  nonsense,  Winnie.  What  have  we  to  do  with 
them?  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  too."  He  sat  down 
beside  her.  She  felt  hopeless,  as  though  she  had  lost 
him. 

"Not  just  me,  Laurie.    Both  of  us." 

"Of  course.    Both  of  us." 

She  was  crushed.  "You  didn't  know  I  knew  all  about 
your  father,  Laurie." 

"No.  I  never  told  you  the  details,  because  it  didn't 
seem  worth  while." 

"You  never  tell  me  anything — not  about  yourself — 
or  anything." 

"I  didn't  think  I  could  tell  you  anything  about  my- 
self you  didn't  know  already." 


66  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

"Don't  joke!    I  want  you  to  love  me." 

"I  do  love  you." 

She  was  tired.  She  buried  her  face  in  the  pillows. 
He  rose  from  the  bed  and  put  on  the  rest  of  his  clothes, 
but  when  he  said  good-by  to  her  she  would  not  answer 
him.  He  outraged  the  essence  of  her  sex.  She  was 
weak.  She  wanted  him  to  be  weaker  than  she.  She 
felt  that  he  owed  it  to  her.  It  was  a  crumb  from  his 
strength,  she  felt,  to  be  weak  to  her  who  had  to  be  weak 
to  the  whole  world.  She  would  not  forgive  him. 


Laurence  went  out  of  the  room,  out  of  the  house.  A 
pale  fiery  mist  rose  up  from  between  the  houses  and 
filled  the  wet  morning  street.  The  houses  with  low- 
ered blinds  were  secret  and  filled  with  women.  Girls 
going  to  work  came  out  of  the  houses  like  the  words 
of  women.  Women  going  to  market  passed  slowly  be- 
fore him  with  their  baskets.  Pregnant  women  walked 
before  him  in  confidence.  The  uncolored  atmos- 
phere threw  back  the  sky.  It  was  the  mirror  of  women. 
Laurence  felt  crowded  between  the  bodies  of  women 
and  houses.  He  walked  quickly  with  his  head  bent. 

On  the  concrete  pavements,  washed  white  as  bones 
by  the  storm  of  the  night  before,  were  rust-colored  pud- 
dles. Dark  and  still,  they  quivered  now  and  again, 
like  quiet  minds  touched  by  the  horror  of  a  recollection. 
The  reflections  of  the  houses  lay  deep  in  them,  shat- 
tered, like  dead  things. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  67 

Mrs.  Farley  stumbled  up  the  dark  stairway.  Her 
knotted  fingers  with  their  tight-stretched  skin  kept  a 
tense  and  fearful  grasp  on  the  scratched  rim  of  the 
lacquered  tray.  On  the  clean  frayed  napkin  she  had 
put  one  of  her  best  plates  and  on  it  rested  a  bloody 
peach  and  a  dull  bright  knife.  The  peach,  balanced 
uncertainly,  rolled  a  little  as  Mrs.  Farley  moved.  The 
knife  clinked.  Black  coffee  beaded  with  gold  turned 
to  saffron  when  it  poured  over  into  the  saucer.  The 
toast,  burnt  a  little  along  the  edges,  slid  back  and  forth 
in  the  napkin  which  enfolded  it. 

She  stopped  before  Winnie's  room.  "Winnie !"  Her 
voice  sounded  cracked  with  fatigue.  With  the  tip  of 
her  black  slipper,  which  was  rough  and  gray  with  wear, 
she  pushed  the  door  back.  The  room  opened  bright 
before  her.  Her  smile  grew  hard  and  solicitous. 

Winnie  sat  up  straight  among  the  creased  pillows 
against  the  dark  old  headboard.  Her  eyes  were  red. 
She  smiled,  too,  and  was  consciously  brave. 

"Good  morning,  Mamma  Farley !  See  how  you  have 
worked  for  poor  little  no-account  me!  Put  the  tray 
down  and  let  me  kiss  you." 

"Bobby  isn't  awake?"  Mrs.  Farley  asked,  embar- 
rassed by  her  own  pleasure  as  she  pressed  bitter  and 
grateful  lips  to  Winnie's  firm  cheek. 

"Are  you  glad  I  was  happy  yesterday?" 

"I  hope  you  are  happy  today.  You  know  how  glad 
we  all  were." 

"I  want  to  be  happy,  Mamma  Farley." 

"And  you  will  be,  Winnie."  Mrs.  Farley  set  the 
tray  shakily  on  the  tossed  bed  clothes. 


"You,  too,  Mamma  Farley,  dear.  I  want  you  to  be 
happy,  too."  Winnie  held  out  a  small  inexorable  hand, 
and  Mrs.  Farley,  unable  to  behave  otherwise,  took  it. 
Winnie  squeezed  her  mother-in-law's  fingers.  "I  know 
you  haven't  always  been  happy,  Mamma,  dear."  Win- 
nie's dim  eyes  were  lustful  with  pity.  Mrs.  Farley  was 
frightened.  Her  hand  trembled  and  she  tried  to  pull 
back  and  resist  the  invitation  of  sympathy.  "Papa 
Farley  ought  to  love  you  more  than  anybody  in  the 
world !"  Winnie  asserted,  passionately  tender. 

Mrs.  Farley  was  shaken.  Who's  been  talking  to 
Winnie?  She  pressed  her  lips  quiveringly  shut.  Her 
eyeglasses  twinkled  and  shuddered  with  her  heaving 
breast.  Winnie  felt  herself  strong  with  a  love  that 
nothing  could  resist.  Exultant,  she  gloated  inwardly 
over  the  knotted  hand  that  trembled  in  her  grasp. 

"Your  parents — I  don't  know — we  won't  talk  about 
old  people's  troubles,  Winnie."  Mrs.  Farley  was  re- 
covering herself.  Perhaps  Winnie  didn't  mean  that. 
"I  suppose  Papa  Farley  loves  me  in  his  way  just  as 
you  love  me  in  yours." 

Winnie  would  not  let  her  go.  "You  stand  up  for 
him.  You're  so  good  to  him,"  she  insisted  with  a  kind 
of  worshiping  commiseration. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be?"  Mrs.  Farley  dared,  trying  to 
smile  while  she  frowned,  her  evasive  eyes  shifting  a 
little. 

"Because  he  don't  deserve  it !  Because  he  did  what 
he  did.  Oh,  Mamma  Farley,  I  know  you  don't  want 
me  to  talk  about  it,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  love  you 
so.  You're  so  wonderful  to  me!"  Winnie's  eyes 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  69 

shone,  mercilessly  sweet,  into  the  hunted  eyes  of  the 
elder  woman. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Winnie.*' 

They  looked  at  each  other.  Mamma  Farley  could 
not  look.  She  picked  at  the  sheet. 

"You  dear !  You  dear !"  Winnie  hugged  her.  She 
was  crying. 

Again  they  leaned  apart  and  regarded  one  another. 
Mrs.  Farley's  inflamed,  withered  eyelids  twitched. 

"Do  you  think  Laurence  really  loves  me?  I'm  so 
afraid!"  Winnie  said  suddenly. 

"Of  course,  Winnie." 

"Oh,  Mamma  Farley,  I  want  to  be  happy.  I  couldn't 

bear  it  if  Laurence "  She  buried  her  face  in 

Mamma  Farley's  dress.  Mrs.  Farley  stroked  her  hair. 

"We're  all  foolish  when  we're  young,  but  God  is 
good  to  us.  When  we  grow  old  we  can  have  a  little 
peace.  But  you're  young  enough — even  for  the  kind 
of  thing  you  want."  Her  pale  mouth  had  a  shriveled 
look  of  bitterness.  "Love  between  men  and  women — 
the  love  you  are  thinking  about — is  not  much  in  life, 
Winnie." 

"But  I  couldn't  bear  not  to  have — not  to  have  any- 
body love  me." 

"Look  in  the  mirror.  They'll  love  you."  Mrs.  Far- 
ley's eyes  in  her  wet,  wrinkled  face  were  hard  with  con- 
tempt under  the  seared  granuled  lids. 

Winnie,  lying  back,  gloated  over  the  thin  white  hair, 
the  lined  flaccid  cheeks,  and  the  eyes  that  glowed  with 
weeping.  Winnie  swam  in  the  strength  of  love  like 
a  swimmer  sure  of  himself  in  trusted  waters.  She  was 


70  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

grateful  to  the  age  and  ugliness  which  did  not  claim 
her. 

Mrs.  Farley  did  not  want  Winnie  to  gaze  at  her 
any  more.  "Look!  Bobby's  awake,"  she  said. 

Winnie  was  satisfied  and  ready  to  be  glad  of  Bobby, 
too. 

The  child  sat  up  drunkenly.  His  touseled  hair, 
matted  with  sweat,  lay  dark  on  his  brow.  His  eyelids 
were  pale  and  swollen  with  sleep.  He  rubbed  them 
with  his  fists. 

"Children  are  the  surest  happiness,"  Mrs.  Farley 
said. 

Winnie  was  oppressed.  "I'm  so  afraid  of  being  sick, 
Mamma  Farley." 

"You'll  soon  be  well,  I  hope."  Mrs.  Farley  had  an 
air  of  resolution  and  dismissal.  She  went  squinting 
to  the  crib.  "My,  what  a  sleepy  boy!" 

Laurie.'  Love.  Children.  Winnie  had  a  terrible 
sense  that  she  was  losing  some  unknown  thing  which 
was  precious  and  belonged  to  her  but  of  which  she 
was  afraid. 

"His  night  drawers  are  too  small.  His  grand- 
mother'll  have  to  make  him  some.  There's  some  nice 
stuff  at  that  store  next  to  the  bakery." 

They  talked  of  shops.  The  atmosphere  of  the  room 
seemed  to  lift  with  the  lightness  and  sureness  of  their 
talk.  They  were  safe  and  at  rest  among  unchanging 
irrelevances.  Women  knew  best  the  sureness  of  trifles. 
These  were  the  things  which  did  not  change — which 
men  could  not  change. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  71 

Late  afternoon.  There  was  no  sun.  Below  the  blank 
gray  sky,  the  long  blank  street.  Along  the  street  a 
pair  of  sleek  and  ponderous  black  horses,  with  thick 
manes  and  shaggy  fetlocks,  plodded  before  a  loaded 
dray.  Their  bodies  rocked  and  swayed  tensely  with 
strain.  Their  huge  feet  clattered  and  strove  against 
the  asphalt.  The  hands  of  the  driver,  red,  with  full, 
knotted  veins,  hung  loose  between  his  knees,  holding 
the  slack  reins.  His  body,  in  a  khaki  shirt,  was 
hunched  forward  miserably.  From  his  fat  stupid  face 
his  eyes  glanced  dully  under  a  bare  thatch  of  neutral 
tinted  hair.  Only  the  horses,  purposeful  and  immense 
in  their  obedience,  seemed  to  understand. 

In  the  gutter  a  street-sweeper,  mild  and  tired,  pushed 
dry  ocher-colored  manure  into  heaps.  Again  and  again 
he  stooped  and  lifted  the  shovel  and  the  manure  fell 
into  a  cart.  He  wore  ragged  white  gloves  too  large 
for  him.  He  was  patient,  but  his  gaze  roamed,  vague 
with  speculation.  Servant  of  the  horses  that  dirtied 
the  street,  he  was  less  sure  than  they. 

At  the  corner  house  work  was  over  for  the  day.  The 
abandoned  platforms  of  the  painters  dangled  loosely 
on  the  long  ropes.  Through  the  smeared  window- 
panes  you  saw  empty  rooms  blank  as  the  faces  of  idiot 
women  waiting  for  love. 

Alice  walked  slowly  home  from  work.  She  saw  her 
own  windows  where  the  awnings  did  not  stir.  Drooping, 
they  cast  their  scalloped  outlines  vaguely  into  the 
depths  of  the  shadow-silvered  glass.  May  was  on  the 
front  step. 

"Hello,  May."    Aunt  Alice's  voice,  very  gruff. 


72  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

May  sucked  her  finger  and  ducked  her  head  side- 
wise,  smiling.  Her  finger  slipped  out  of  her  mouth  with 
a  plop.  She  put  it  back  between  her  wet  lips. 

"Coming  in  ?"  Aunt  Alice  held  the  door  back.  May 
went  after  her  into  the  hall  that  was  full  of  the  smell 
of  baking  bread.  Aunt  Alice  threw  off  her  hat  and 
walked,  heavy-footed,  into  the  living-room.  May 
trailed  after  her  in  limp  timidity. 

Winnie,  in  her  lilac  neglige,  sat  in  an  armchair. 
"Oh,  Alice.  I've  been  talking  to  the  doctor  again  and 
he's  so  horrid.  He  says  I  should  have  been  operated 
on  right  after  Bobby  was  born  and  now  I'm  getting 
worse." 

Alice  stood  beside  the  chair  and  stared  down.  "Doc- 
tors like  to  croak." 

Winnie  reached  up  and  clutched  Alice's  square  dark 
hand.  Winnie's  white  fingers  were  little  claws  digging 
into  Alice's  swarthy  flesh.  "Say  I  don't  have  to!  I 
can't,  Alice!  I  can't!" 

"Well,  I  certainly  wouldn't  until  I  got  into  better 
shape  nervously  than  you  are  now." 

"Mother  wants  me  to  go  away  with  her  and  I  don't 
dare.  I  know  it  would  do  me  good  but  I  don't  dare, 
Alice."  Winnie  half  sobbed. 

"Don't  dare?  What  rot!  Why  shouldn't  you 
dare?" 

"Laurie  will  hate  me  if  I  go  off  with  Mother!  It 
doesn't  matter  how  sick  I  am,  he  will  hate  me !" 

"Winnie,  you're  talking  the  most  unmitigated  non- 
sense." 


"Fm  not,  Alice.  You  don't  know.  He  can't  for- 
give me  for  wanting  to  be  kind  to  Mother." 

"I  haven't  noticed  any  signs  of  unforgiveness  on  his 
part.  I  admit  he  acted  like  a  fool  on  Sunday  but  I 
suppose  he  can't  be  blamed.  Your  father's  not  the 
easiest  person  in  the  world  to  get  on  with,  himself." 

"I  know,  but  you  don't  understand.  Sometimes  I 
think  Laurie  hates  me  for  being  sick.  He  don't  love  me 
any  more !  I  know  he  don't." 

"Laurence  hate  you  for  being  sick!  Good  God!" 
Then  Alice  added,  "You  shouldn't  talk  this  way  before 
May,  Winnie." 

Winnie  had  her  eyes  shut.  She  made  a  gesture  away 
with  her  hands.  "Go  out,  May." 

May  moved  into  a  shadow  by  the  door,  but  she  did 
not  go  out. 

"I  can't  bear  being  sick.  It  m-m-makes  me  so  old. 
Papa  Farley — that  time  Papa  Farley — that  woman. 
They  had  a  child,  M-m-mother  told  me.  Oh,  do  you 
suppose  Laurence  will  do  like  that?" 

"Like  what?"  Alice's  voice  was  sharp — almost 
threatening — with  distrust. 

Winnie  kept  her  eyes  shut  and  wrung  her  hands. 
"I  thought  you  knew  all  about  it,  Alice." 

"About  what?" 

"Don't  act  as  though  you  couldn't  forgive  me !  That 
woman  out  West — and — and  your  father  started  to 
get  a  divorce  and  gave  it  up.  I'm  so  afraid  Laurence 
won't  love  me  any  more !" 

Alice  knew  that  her  parents  had  had  some  trouble. 
It  was  the  year  she  was  away  at  school.  She  had  heard 


74  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

fragments — allusions.  Now  she  felt  strange.  She 
wanted  to  hear  more  but  could  not — not  from  Winnie's 
lips.  Alice's  coarsely  fine  face  burnt  bronze  with 
shame.  Her  sad  eyes  of  thick  brown  searched  Win- 
nie's evasive  features  distrustfully.  "You  mustn't  talk 
about  this,  Winnie,"  Alice  said.  "In  the  first  place  it 
has  nothing  to  do  with  Laurence.  You  know  as  well 
as  I  do  that  Laurence  cares  for  nobody  but  you  and 
never  will.  I  don't  believe  he  feels  hard  toward  you 
because  you  want  to  see  your  mother." 

"Now  you're  angry  with  me?" 

"I'm  not.  I'm  going  upstairs  to  wash  and  brush. 
You  cut  out  this  morbid  nonsense,  Winnie."  Alice 
smiled  a  hard,  kind,  dismissing  smile,  and  turned  away, 
walking  briskly  out  with  her  firm,  awkward  stride. 

May  edged  out  of  the  shadow  and  came  nearer  her 
mother.  It  was  half  dark  in  the  room.  Winnie  sniffed, 
oblivious  to  May.  May  came  and  stood  very  near. 
She  reached  over  and  passed  a  hesitant  hand  along 
the  arm  of  her  mother's  chair. 

Winnie  started.  May  drew  back  and  stood  teetering 
on  one  foot,  her  face  alternately  dark  and  smiling. 
"Oh,  May,  I  t-told  you  to  go  out." 

May  hung  her  head.  A  sort  of  shiver  like  the  shim- 
mer of  water  passed  over  her  pale,  uneasy  face.  She 
wanted  to  go  toward  her  mother.  Wanted  almost  un- 
endurably  to  go.  But  something  in  her  mother  held 
her  off.  May  was  in  torment  between  the  two  im- 
pulses which  possessed  her  equally. 

Winnie  wiped  her  eyes.     "Come  here,"  she  said  at 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  75 

last.  May  went  forward,  smiling,  trembling,  half  re- 
leased. "You  love  me,  May?" 

May  could  not  speak.  She  choked  with  affirmation. 
Her  face  was  in  Winnie's  warm  neck.  May  lost  her- 
self in  the  warm  throat  and  the  soft  hair.  If  she  did 
not  have  to  see  her  mother's  eyes  it  was  well.  May  had 
a  terror  of  eyes.  They  made  her  know  things  about 
herself  which  she  could  not  bear.  Sharp  looks  splin- 
tered her  consciousness. 

Winnie,  overcoming  a  shudder,  admitted  the  caress. 
"You'll  always  love  Mother,  won't  you?" 


After  the  evening  meal  Mr.  Farley  took  a  newspaper 
into  the  living-room.  There  he  sat  by  the  lamp  with 
the  green  sha'de.  Through  the  still  room  the  light, 
concentrated  under  the  lamp  shade,  rushed  to  the  car- 
pet. On  the  way  it  spread,  glistening,  over  the  oak 
table,  and  brightened  one-half  of  Mr.  Farley's  face. 
The  newspaper  in  his  hands  was  glassy  with  light. 
The  print  looked  gray. 

The  rain  that  made  the  air  sharp  had  not  yet  fallen 
and  the  dim  curtains  against  the  open  windows  shook 
now  and  then  as  with  sudden  palpitant  breaths. 

Alice  walked  about  the  room  nervously.  Several 
times  she  went  to  the  window  and  glanced  out.  When, 
she  pulled  the  curtain  back  her  father's  newspaper 
flapped  against  his  hand,  but  he  showed  no  impatience. 

Alice  came  and  stood  before  his  chair.  "Come  go 
for  a  walk  with  me!" 


76  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

"Walk?"  He  looked  up  at  her.  He  was  vaguely 
patient  and  smiling1  a  little.  "Isn't  it  raining ?" 

"No.  Come  along."  Alice  took  his  arm.  He  folded 
his  paper  carefully  and  placed  it  on  the  table.  Then, 
stiff  and  heavy  in  his  movements,  he  got  up. 

Alice  dragged  him  into  the  hall  and  he  took  his  hat 
down.  "You  ought  to  have  something  over  your  head," 
he  said  to  her. 

"Rubbish !    It's  summer.    Come  on." 

Alice  flung  the  front  door  wide.  The  wind  took 
their  breaths  for  a  second.  He  stumbled  a  little  as  he 
followed  her  down  the  steps  and  into  the  empty  street. 
Overhead  the  moon,  a  lurid  yellow,  scudded  between 
transparent  black  clouds. 

"It's  too  stormy  to  walk.  We  mustn't  go  far  or 
the  rain  will  catch  us." 

"It  won't  yet  awhile.  I  had  to  get  out  of  that 
house."  Alice  linked  her  arm  in  his.  She  could  feel 
his  discomfort  in  her  talk  as  though  it  came  through 
her  sleeve  against  him. 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  you  talk  about  your  home  like 
that,  Alice."  Mr.  Farley  sounded  hurt. 

"Who  wouldn't !    I  loathe  Mamma— that's  all." 

Mr.  Farley's  arm  quivered  where  it  brushed  Alice's 
shoulder.  "You're  unjust  to  her.  She's  done  the 
best  she  can  for  you." 

"Has  she!  Well,  my  God,  she  couldn't  have  done 
worse." 

"I  don't  think  you're  just  to  her." 

They  walked  on.    Alice's  heavy  skirt  beat  her  ankles 


above  her  stout  shoes.  Mr.  Farley's  coat-tails  flapped. 
Paper  rustled  in  the  gutter. 

"You  make  me  sick  about  being  just  to  Mamma," 
Alice  said  almost  tenderly.  "Whom  was  she  ever  just 
to?  What  about  being  just  to  yourself?" 

"We  can't  ask  too  much  for  ourselves  in  this  life," 
Mr.  Farley  said  soberly. 

"Bosh !  I  wish  to  Heaven  you  had  left  her  that  time 
when  you  wanted  to !" 

Mr.  Farley  was  shocked.  Alice  had  never  spoken  to 
him  like  this.  His  arm  quivered  more  than  ever.  Un- 
able to  reply  to  her  for  the  moment,  he  was  a  dung- 
beetle,  rolling  his  astonishment  over  and  over  and  mak- 
ing it  ready  for  speech. 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  answer  you,  Alice.  I  don't 
think  there  ever  was  a  time  when  I  could  have  taken 
any  joy  which  came  through  a  sacrifice  of  other  peo- 
ple's happiness.  I "  He  was  confused  by  his  own 

words.  He  stopped  talking  suddenly.  Alice  could  feel 
that  his  body  was  rigid  against  hers.  He  could  not 
forgive  her. 

"Not  even  when  you  loved  that  Mrs.  Wilson,  eh?" 
She  remembered  the  name  all  at  once,  having  heard  it 
long  ago. 

Mr.  F'arley  stopped,  still.  He  put  his  hand  to  his 
forehead.  His  other  arm  fell  away  from  Alice.  It 
took  him  an  instant  to  answer  her.  She  tapped  her 
foot  on  the  pavement.  The  wind  whizzed  in  their 
ears. 

"Alice,  I — you  are  referring  to  things  too  personal 
to — I  ought  to  resent  it." 


78  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

"Resent  it.  I'd  be  glad  to  see  you  resent  something." 
She  wanted  him  to  strike  fire  against  her  mother's  dull- 
ness. 

He  could  not  bear  her  smile. 

"Your  mother  is  a  good  woman " 

"I  suppose  she  is.  God  save  us  from  good  women!" 

Mr.  Farley  walked  on  slowly.  He  walked  like  an  old 
man.  It  made  him  feel  tired  when  he  thought  that  any- 
one questioned  the  nobility  and  excellence  of  his  reso- 
lution. 

"When  you  have  had  more  experience  of  life,  Alice, 
you  will  see  how  easily  we  err,  and  how  it's  always  bet- 
ter to  accept  the  weight  of  old  burdens  rather  than 
assume  new  ones." 

"I'm  not  likely  to  be  offered  new  ones." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say.  Ugly  old  maid  at  twenty-nine.  My 
life  will  go  on  like  this  forever  and  ever." 

Mr.  Farley  was  ashamed  with  Alice  because  she  told 
the  truth  about  herself.  It  hurt  him  to  face  her  ugli- 
ness and  not  be  allowed  to  lie  to  her. 

"That's  morbid  talk,"  he  said,  walking  more  slowly 
and  rubbing  his  forehead  again. 

"Bosh!  I'm  not  morbid.  My  life  ends  where  it  be- 
gan— that's  all.  You're  the  one  who  makes  me  sick. 
Why  don't  you  kick  out  of  this?  Why  don't  you  find 
somebody  with  some  self-respect  who  means  something 
to  you,  and  go  off  and  be  happy?  Some  people  may 
admire  you  for  all  this  giving  up  your  soul  and  allow- 
ing it  to  be  spit  on,  but  I  don't."  Her  heart  was  hard 
against  him.  It  relieved  her  to  push  her  father  from 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  79 

her  out  into  life.  It  helped  her  to  make  him  live  in 
her  stead. 

Large  round  raindrops  pressed  their  foreheads  softly 
like  rounded  lips.  The  rain  falling  through  the  chill 
air  was  warm. 

"I  hardly  think  it  has  been  any  sacrifice  of  my  self- 
respect  for  me  to  do  my  duty  toward  your  mother," 
he  answered  resentfully. 

They  walked  on  quickly,  a  little  apart.  Alice  was 
silent  with  irritation.  She  tried  to  fill  her  soul  with 
the  calm  of  disgust  but  she  was  feverish  against  his 
inertia.  Mr.  Farley  felt  himself  misunderstood. 


Alice  had  been  reading  in  bed.  It  was  late  at  night. 
The  room  was  very  still.  She  heard  Mrs.  Farley's  tired 
step  on  the  back  stair  coming  up  from  the  kitchen. 

"Mamma !"  Alice  called  in  a  sharp,  subdued  voice. 

Mrs.  Farley  ambled  slowly  forward  and  leaned 
against  the  portal.  She  squinted  at  Alice  wearily. 
"Well?" 

"Come  in." 

"I  want  to  go  to  bed  early.  I've  had  so  many  things 
to  do."  She  entered  the  room  uncertainly  and  sat  on 
the  edge  of  a  chair.  Her  tired  hands  twitched  a  little 
in  her  slack  lap.  Her  hair  was  untidy.  Sweat  glis- 
tened on  her  gray  upper  lip  above  her  pale  brown 
mouth.  When  she  turned  her  head  Alice  saw  the  thick 
white  down  on  her  cheek.  Her  glasses  were  on  her 
nose  and  behind  them  her  blank  eyes  regarded  her 


80  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

daughter  stealthily.  "You  don't  seem  to  be  well,  Alice. 
I've  noticed  how  fidgety  you've  been  getting  in  this 
heat." 

"I  wish  it  were  only  the  heat."  Alice  sat  up  and 
hugged  her  knees  with  her  big  bare  arms.  Her  night- 
gown was  loose.  It  showed  her  heavy  neck  and  the 
swell  of  her  large  breast.  Her  hair  had  slipped  down 
and  hung  in  moist  dull  locks  about  her  hard  intent 
face.  "Do  you  think  this  operation  Winnie  has  to  go 
through  with  is  serious?" 

Mrs.  Farley  rocked  herself  a  little.  Her  heel  tapped 
the  carpet  restlessly.  "I  don't  know.  How  can  you 
tell?" 

"At  any  rate  her  parents  can  afford  to  give  her  the 
best  care." 

"Yes,  but  that's  the  worst  of  it!  The  worst  of  it. 
Laurence  can't  bear  to  have  her  take  things  from 
them."  Mrs.  Farley  spoke  in  a  worn  flat  voice  and 
rocked  herself  again. 

"How  absurd !" 

"Oh,  he'll  have  to  let  them  help.  There's  nothing 
else  to  do." 

"I  suppose  that's  why  Winnie's  always  in  hysterics 
lately?" 

"Is  she?" 

"My  God,  Mamma !  Take  a  little  interest  in  some- 
thing." 

Tears  of  protest  rose  in  Mrs.  Farley's  eyes.  Her 
mouth  shook.  She  made  an  effort  to  rise,  then  sank 
back.  "No,  I  take  no  interest  in  anything  but  work," 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  81 

she  said  bitterly.  "Keeping  house  for  you  and  your 
father " 

"Why  do  you  do  it,  then  ?  My  God,  you  could  have 
stopped  ten  years  ago."  Seeing  her  mother's  eyes  fill 
with  tears,  Alice's  own  dry  eyes  felt  a  sudden  cool- 
ness. "Whom  do  you  do  it  for?  Laurence  and  I  are 
old  enough  to  look  out  for  ourselvjes  S" 

Mrs.  Farley's  shoulders  drooped  and  shivered.  She 
wagged  her  head  on  her  lean  neck  in  helpless  protest 
and  reproach.  Her  body  rocked.  "I  suppose  your 
father  don't  need  me,"  she  said  scornfully,  crudely 
wiping  the  sweat  from  her  face  with  her  hand.  She 
looked  like  a  blind  woman,  hearing  Alice  from  a  long 
way  off. 

"Of  course  he  doesn't  need  you !  You  ought  to  have 
found  that  out  the  time  he  tried  to  get  a  divorce  from 
you !"  Alice,  mysteriously  urged  to  cruelty,  bore  down 
upon  her  mother.  Alice's  eyes  glittered  inscrutably. 

Mrs.  Farley  could  not  bear  them.  She  stood  at  last, 
tottering  a  little.  Her  breath  came  quickly  and  rasp- 
ingly.  "Hush,  I  tell  you !  Hush !  You've  brought  this 
up  before.  There's  something  cruel  in  you  makes  you 
want  to  go  over  and  over  things  that  are  done  with!" 

"I  suppose  you  think  I'm  an  interfering  old  maid?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are." 

"And  you  don't  want  to  know."  Alice  sounded 
amused.  It  was  an  unpleasant  sound. 

Mrs.  Farley,  gazing  very  deliberately  at  the  car- 
pet, blew  her  nose.  "I've  never  discussed  my  relation 
to  your  father  with  his  children  and  I'm  not  going  to 


82  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

now.  Fve  sacrificed  myself  for  what  I  thought  best 
and  it's  nobody's  business  but  my  own." 

"Sacrificed !"  echoed  Alice  contemptuously. 

"I  won't  listen  to  you  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it. 
I  never  expected  gratitude  so  I'm  not  disappointed." 
Mrs.  Farley,  not  looking  back,  dragged  into  the  hall. 

Alice  lay  still  an  instant,  her  expression  one  of  re- 
lentless retrospect.  Her  eyes  were  enigmatic  but  her 
mouth  was  twisted  with  disgust  and  her  nostrils  were 
wide  and  tense.  She  reached  above  her  head  and  turned 
out  the  light. 

The  curtain  flapped.  Staccato  fingers  of  rain  tapped 
on  the  pane. 

In  the  room  it  was  dark.  The  narrow  dark.  The 
walls  of  the  room  drew  near.  She  felt  herself  pressed 
between  them. 

Alice  tossed  from  side  to  side.  When  she  lay  quiet 
finally  the  darkness  receded  from  her,  touched  her  lids 
softly  in  passing. 

Death!    Oh,  my  God,  I  want  life! 

She  sat  up  in  bed  holding  her  heavy  breasts.  Father ! 
A  great  body  unmotivated.  Alice's  hot  will  sought  for 
a  world  to  impregnate.  Wish-washy  mother  who  had 
given  birth  meaninglessly. 

Horace  Ridge.  She  grew  cool  with  despair — de- 
sir  eless. 

The  hot  sheets  turned  cool.  Far  away  the  beat  of 
rain  on  the  window.  Under  the  lifted  sash  the  rain-wet 
wind  swept  through  the  room,  frozen  pain,  threads  of 
frozen  wonder  embroidering  the  hot  dark.  Wet  wind 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  83 

beat  the  soggy  awnings  against  the  glass.     A  dank 
smell  came  in. 


It  was  a  cold  August  morning.  The  pale  sky  was 
filled  with  a  dim  still  light.  In  the  dining-room  the 
yellow  shades,  half  lowered,  strained  the  gloomy  radi- 
ance through  them  and  made  it  a  heavy  orange.  The 
tablecloth,  splattered  with  coffee  stains  like  old  blood, 
was  overcast  with  trembling  reflections  of  yellow.  The 
morning  meal  was  over.  The  empty  plates  were  scat- 
tered about  smeared  with  hardened  egg.  The  half  of 
a  muffin  was  mashed  on  the  dingy  carpet. 

Mr.  Farley,  a  little  away  from  the  table,  sat  reading 
his  paper.  Mrs.  Farley  was  collecting  the  debris  of 
breakfast.  Her  feeble  hands  moved  among  the  dishes 
with  shaken  determination. 

"Was  your  egg  fried  enough?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  yes.  Very  nice."  Mr.  Farley  glanced  up  and 
gave  his  wife  a  sightless  smile.  Troubled  by  what  Alice 
had  said  to  him,  he  was  uncomfortable  when  Mrs.  Far- 
ley spoke.  He  began  to  fold  his  paper. 

What  he  was  finished  with,  he  pushed  out  of  his  mind 
into  darkness.  Alice  had  dragged  his  memories,  and 
now  the  past  came  up  to  him  like  a  corpse  floating. 
Helen  out  West.  She  might  come  East  next  month. 
He  hoped  not.  His  son.  Place  where  he  sent  money. 
He  paid  to  be  allowed  to  stop  thinking  about  it. 

"I'm  worried  about  Winnie.  I  thought  her  recon- 
ciliation with  her  parents  would  improve  her  frame  of 


84.  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

mind,  but  now  she  seems  more  nervous  and  unhappy 
than  ever.  The  thought  of  that  operation  preys  on 
her  mind." 

"Well — I  think  she  ought  to  go  out  into  the  coun- 
try for  a  rest  before  there's  any  more  talk  of  oper- 
ation." 

"She  thinks  Laurence  will  never  be  able  to  forgive 
her  if  she  goes  off  with  her  mother  and  father." 

"Oh,  now  I  think  that's  too  bad.  She  mustn't  think 
things  like  that  about  Laurence."  Mr.  Farley  talked 
kindly  with  a  sort  of  clerical  remoteness.  His  lips 
smiled  wearily.  His  head  was  bent.  He  stood  up. 

Mrs.  Farley  picked  up  her  pile  of  dishes;  put  the 
dishes  between  herself  and  life.  The  talk  with  Alice 
the  night  before  had  made  Mrs.  Farley  feel  furtive. 

"Don't  work  too  hard."     Mr.  Farley  walked  out. 

Mrs.  Farley  saw  May  outside  in  the  hall.  "Come 
here,  May.  See  if  you  can  help  me  take  the  plates  to 
the  kitchen." 

May  came  in,  glad  to  be  called.  Her  grandmother 
did  not  look  at  her.  She  picked  up  a  plate  with  a 
cup  on  it.  She  walked  into  the  kitchen,  taking  careful 
steps,  the  rim  of  the  plate,  held  with  both  hands, 
pressed  so  tightly  against  her  breast  that  it  cut.  The 
cup  jiggled  rhythmically,  bumping  time  to  May's  steps. 
May's  mouth  hung  open.  Her  face  was  bewildered  with 
anxiety.  Her  breath  came  fast.  With  immense  relief 
she  reached  the  sink  and,  leaning  over,  slipped  the  plate 
into  it. 

Mrs.  Farley  had  to  talk  to  some  one.  She  wanted 
to  push  the  trifles  forward  in  her  life  and  crowd  back 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  85 

the  darkness,  filling  it  with  bright  hard  things,  baubles, 
grocerymen,  and  dishes;  so  she  asked  May,  "Has  our 
groceryman  gone  by  here  this  morning?  He  prom- 
ised to  call  and  exchange  that  condensed  milk  for 
evaporated  milk." 

"No'm,"  May  said. 

Mrs.  Farley,  frowning,  her  brows  twitching,  looked 
at  May.  Mrs.  Farley  could  not"  see  the  little  girl 
without  feeling  an  irritable  prompting  to  command 
hfer.  "Go  wash  your  face  and  see  if  your  mother  is 
awake.  If  she  isn't,  don't  rouse  her.  Don't  let  Bobby 
see  you  or  he'll  begin  to  clamor  to  get  out  of  bed." 

May  ran  dutifully  out. 

"Don't  clatter  up  the  steps!"  Mrs.  Farley  called 
sharply. 

May  walked  very  softly  up  the  creaking  stairs. 

Mrs.  Farley  had  the  soiled  clothes  to  count.  She 
left  the  dishes  to  soak  and  went  into  the  dining-room 
again  with  the  big  bundle  tied  in  a  sheet. 

"One,  two,  three,  four."  She  untied  the  sheet  and 
began  to  count.  She  could  not  count  fast  enough. 
She  crammed  her  mind  with  numbers.  It  was  like  try- 
ing to  fill  a  slack  sack  to  cover  something  hidden  at 
the  bottom. 

"Shirts.    Socks." 

Not  darned.  Must  darn  today.  Alice's  stockings. 
Alice  is  a  hard,  selfish  girl. 

"Tablecloths.  Two — two" — murmuring — "what  did 
I  say?" 

Sacrifice.     We  must  all  make  sacrifices.     The  home. 

"One,  two." 


86  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Her  heart  smoldered  damply  in  its  resignation.  She 
squeezed  love  out  of  her  heart. 

Those  awful  days !  Ten  years  older.  People  one 
did  not  know  seemed  to  seek  one  accusingly  in  the  street. 

Furtively,  she  recalled  the  birth  of  her  son,  remem- 
brance of  a  strength  that  had  somehow  become  weari- 
ness. Winnie. 

In  the  dark  doorway  Winnie  appeared  in  a  muslin 
dress.  She  was  smiling,  a  little  wan.  Her  hair  was 
dressed  high.  She  looked  plaintive  yet  determined. 

"I  won't  be  sick  and  lie  around,"  she  said.  "Fm 
going  to  help  you  work." 

"You're  going  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort!  You 
sit  right  down  here  and  I'll  give  you  your  breakfast 
at  once.  Did  that  child  wake  you  up  after  all?" 

"No.    I  was  awake." 

"Well,  sit  down." 

"Oh,  Mamma  Farley,  I  want  to  fix  my  own  egg." 
Winnie,  protesting  without  conviction,  allowed  herself 
to  be  pressed  into  a  chair. 

"Where  did  you  leave  Bobby?" 

"He's  still  asleep." 

"Well,  you  had  no  business  to  get  up." 

Winnie  gazed  up  with  sweet  greedy  eyes.  "I  don't 
dare  be  sick  any  more.  Sick  people  are  horrid.  No- 
body loves  them."  Winnie's  mouth  was  patient,  quiv- 
ering, below  her  lifted  eyes. 

"Yes.  Nobody  loves  them."  Mrs.  Farley  joked  la- 
boriously. 

"You  dear !"  Winnie  reached  out  and  grasped  Mrs. 
Farley's  hand.  Winnie's  eyes,  like  brown  bees,  crept 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  87 

with  their  glance  into  the  vague  combative  eyes  be- 
fore them.  Thinking  of  yesterday's  talk,  Winnie's  gaze 
pierced  the  rough-dried  pongee  blouse  and  the  sagging 
black  skirt,  and  saw  the  small  high-shouldered  form 
beneath.  Winnie's  looks  invited  to  pain  as  to  a  bath 
of  wine  enjoyed  with  closed  eyes. 

Mrs.  Farley's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Ugly  and  old, 
before  Winnie's  pity  Mrs.  Farley  was  a  woman  beaten 
back  by  a  lover.  She  put  forth  a  smile  that  was  like 
a  weak  and  gentle  hand  caressing  an  enemy.  "Bless 
you,  dear.  You  sit  still  while  I  get  your  breakfast." 

She  walked  out  quickly. 


When  Laurence  came  home  to  dinner  Winnie,  still 
dressed  in  her  best,  was  alone  in  the  living-room. 

"Hello !  You've  assumed  a  new  role,"  he  said  from 
the  doorway. 

She  could  see  that  finding  her  there  made  him  uncom- 
fortable. She  smiled  at  him  with  a  kind  of  happy  pain. 

He  came  forward.  He  was  kind  and  distant.  His 
lips  brushed  her  hair. 

She  gazed  up  at  him.  Her  eyes,  with  crushed  back 
lids  and  lifted  lashes,  melted  open  for  his. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  sick,  Laurie.  I've  got  to  go 
away  with  Mother.  You  won't  hate  me  for  going  away 
with  her?  I  do  need  a  change  so!" 

He  stood  before  her  with  a  kind  of  mocking  fatigue, 
but  she  saw  that  he  was  sunk  deep  in  himself.  She 
wanted  to  drag  him  up. 


88  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know  what  to  say  to 
you  lately." 

She  reached  up  and  laced  him  with  her  arms.  "Am 
I  so  unreasonable?  Oh,  Laurie,  I  don't  want  to  die." 

He  seated  himself  helplessly  on  the  arm  of  her  chair. 
"Why  think  about  something  so  improbable  as  dying?" 

"But  I  might.     I  want  you  to  care,"  she  whispered. 

"Don't  you  think  I  care?"  His  voice  had  a  grating 
note  as  he  tried  to  be  light. 

"Of  course — ves — I  guess  so.  But  it's  so  awful  to 
think  about." 

"Then  don't  think  of  it." 

"I  can't  help  it." 

Death.  The  word  had  not  been  alive  to  her  until 
this  moment.  Suddenly  she  heard  it  about  her,  whis- 
pering like  wings.  She  floated  beyond  Laurence,  be- 
yond the  room. 

With  a  quick  intake  of  breath  she  shut  out  terror 
grown  too  delicious. 

"Then  you  will  let  me  go  away  with  Mother?  You 
won't  stop  loving  me,  Laurie?" 

"I'll  shake  you  for  talking  nonsense,"  he  said,  get- 
ting up. 

She  hated  him  for  escaping  her,  but  her  mind  was 
made  up  and  the  next  day  when  her  mother  called  the 
morning  of  departure  was  set. 


Settling  her  pince-nez  on  her  flat  nose  before  her 
fixed  and  despairing  eyes,  Mrs.  Price  pressed  Winnie's 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  89 

face  to  her  flat  black  bosom.  "I'm  so  glad,  dear.  It 
was  so  foolish  of  my  little  girl  to  hold  out  against 
having  her  parents  do  anything  for  her.  Your  father 
is  so  good,  Winnie.  There  is  nothing  I  can  ask  for  you 
that  he  isn't  willing  to  give.  You  mustn't  deprive  him 
of  that  pleasure." 

Winnie  thought  of  Laurie  and  was  stiff  in  her 
mother's  embrace,  yet  at  that  moment  could  not  have 
said  which  of  them  was  most  irritating. 

Mrs.  Price  always  avoided  Laurence's  name. 

When  Mrs.  Price  had  gone  Winnie  lay  in  her  room 
on  the  couch,  excited  and  oppressed.  She  said  death 
to  herself,  and  the  word  echoed  inside  her  like  a  cry 
down  a  long  hall.  Then  the  echo  was  lost  in  the  deeps 
of  darkness.  But  it  continued  to  quiver  below  the  sur- 
face of  her  life. 

Winnie  thought  of  being  sick.  She  was  harsh  with 
a  knowledge  of  herself.  She  would  not  be  sick.  Clos- 
ing her  eyes  she  imagined  her  mouth.  With  a  kind  of 
horror  of  its  own  act,  it  pressed  Laurence's.  She 
woke  up. 

The  noonday  sun  outside  was  pale  with  rain.  Win- 
nie heard  footsteps  in  the  still  noon  street.  Death. 
The  dancing  word  fluttered  ahead  of  the  hurrying  feet. 

Winnie  moved  fretfully  on  the  couch.  She  saw 
Death  as  the  face  of  an  insistent  stranger  thrust  into 
her  own.  Stupid  thing  which  she  did  not  know.  She 
pushed  it  aside  feebly,  feeling  for  what  had  meaning 
to  her — Laurence,  Bobby,  Mrs.  Price. 

All  at  once  she  realized  that  Laurence  had  come  home 
for  something  and  was  in  the  room.  He  rummaged  at 


90  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

his  desk.  He  was  subdued  in  his  movements,  trying 
not  to  rouse  her.  She  watched  him  between  half-closed 
lids.  He  was  familiar  to  her.  The  very  crooked  set 
of  his  thick  neck  in  his  broad  shoulders  was  food  to 
her.  Hungrily  she  opened  her  eyes  wider  and  lifted 
herself  to  her  elbow. 

"What's  the  matter,  Laurie?"  Her  whisper,  sharp 
and  sweet,  pierced  the  somber  stillness  of  the  room 
where  the  shades  had  been  drawn  for  her  to  rest. 

"Hello!  I  came  to  get  a  note  book.  Did  I  wake 
you?"  He  had  started  at  the  sound  of  his  name,  but 
as  he  faced  her  he  held  himself  contained  in  his  sharp 
cold  smile. 

"I  don't  care.  I've  been  having  horrid  dreams, 
Laurie." 

"That's  a  silly  thing  to  do." 

"Don't  make  fun  of  me.    Come  sit  by  me  a  minute." 

"I  haven't  much  time,  dear."  He  came  and  sat  on 
the  edge  of  the  couch.  "Don't  you  want  the  shades 
up?  It's  so  gloomy." 

"I  want  you  first.     See  how  cold  my  hands  are!" 

She  gave  him  her  hands.  He  took  them  as  though 
he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  them.  His  eyes  were 
still  full  of  the  brightness  of  the  street  and  he  could 
not  see  her  plainly. 

"I  want  you  to  love  me.  Oh,  Laurie,  you  do  love 
me!"  She  groped  up  his  arms,  his  cheek,  until  she 
had  found  his  mouth.  She  covered  it  up  with  her  hand. 
She  did  not  want  it  to  speak  against  her.  When  he 
tried  to  talk  she  pulled  him  down  until  his  eyes  pressed 
her  breast.  She  drew  him  deeper  into  the  warm  covers 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  91 

on  the  tumbled  couch.  She  was  cold.  Her  hands  said 
that  he  must  warm  her.  Memories  of  pain  were  silver 
veins  in  her  body.  Twisting  herself  on  the  couch  to 
bring  him  nearer,  she  wrenched  her  arm,  sharp  pang 
of  happiness. 

"Love  me !"  she  entreated.  Her  mouth  clung  against 
his.  She  could  feel  the  force  of  his  quickening  heart 
beats  as  though  they  were  her  own.  The  muscles  in 
his  arm  twitched  under  the  rough-napped  cloth  of  the 
sleeve  which  brushed  her  cheek.  Her  nostrils  dilated 
against  his  arm.  The  smell  of  his  body  was  bitter.  She 
wanted  to  drink  in  the  vividness  of  his  strong  live 
flesh  that  resisted  her. 

Around  the  dimmed  squares  of  the  yellow  shades, 
light,  entering,  made  shining  borders.  Noises  drifted 
in  the  light  under  the  bright  edges  of  the  yellow  shades. 
Hammering  from  the  house  on  the  corner  reverberated 
through  the  room. 

"Winnie!  I  can't — you  mustn't.  You're  not  well 
enough.  You  mustn't  excite  yourself  like  this!" 

She  felt  him  passive  in  his  resistance.  Reluctantly 
her  arms  slipped  away.  Her  resentful  eyes  shone  at 
him  from  the  gloom  with  a  small  and  pointed  light. 

He  leaned  away  from  her,  patting  her  hair  as  he 
came  gradually  to  his  feet.  He  did  not  want  to  see  her 
because  she  made  him  feel  guilty  toward  himself.  Then 
he  was  obliged  to  look.  When  he  smiled  at  her  he  kept 
her  outside  his  eyes.  He  seemed  relieved  in  spite  of 
himself. 

"Poor  little  sick  girl,"  he  said  as  to  a  child.     "Pm 


9«  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

glad  you're  going  away  with  your  mother.    We'll  give 
you  a  nice  rest  and  have  you  all  fixed  up." 

"You  don't  love  me !"  she  said,  looking  at  him  storm- 

%- 

"Please,  Winnie.     Things  are  hard  enough."     His 

face  was  drawn  with  the  effort  of  his  continued  smile. 

"You  don't."     She  turned  over  and  closed  her  eyes. 

"Don't  be  absurd."    He  joked  uncomfortably. 

But  she  would  not  look  at  him. 

He  walked  out  on  tiptoe  as  though  he  thought  her 
asleep. 

When  she  knew  he  was  gone  she  began  to  cry,  and, 
keeping  her  eyes  closed,  moved  her  head  from  side  to 
side  and  struck  into  the  pillows  with  her  fist. 


Laurence  did  not  go  home  to  dinner,  but  remained 
working  at  the  laboratory  until  after  midnight.  As 
he  walked  home  the  city  streets,  washed  thinly  with 
light,  were  yet  thronged.  His  mind  was  sharply  intent 
on  itself.  It  was  like  the  keel  of  a  ship,  parting  the 
swarming  life  before  it. 

But  as  he  drew  nearer  the  place  where  Winnie  was 
his  heart  strained.  He  felt  suffocated.  There  were 
women  standing  in  doorways.  Their  shadows  wove  the 
darkness  together  and  drew  it  tight  about  his  heart. 
He  hated  his  work  but  the  doing  of  it  gave  him  relief, 
for  it  could  not  enter  him. 

The  glow  from  a  street  lamp  fell  on  his  own  house 
— purple-red  walls  that  held  Winnie.  The  big  gilt 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  93 

figures  on  the  transom  above  the  door  glistened  on  the 
glass  that  gave  back  a  blank  reflection  of  the  light. 
He  put  in  his  latch  key.  The  door,  swinging  away  from 
nim,  seemed  drawn  inward  with  the  pull  of  the  dark- 
ness. 

It  shut  ponderously  behind  him.  He  hesitated  a 
moment,  resisting  some  unknown  inevitability.  It  was 
very  still  in  the  dark. 

Only  the  stairs  were  half  revealed  by  the  pallor  of 
the  light  that  came  in  high  up  from  the  street. 

He  walked  up  softly  and  opened  the  bedroom  door. 
He  could  hear  a  breath  like  the  respiration  of  shadow. 
He  knew  it  was  Bobby. 

Then  somehow  he  realized  that  Winnie  was  awake 
and  holding  herself  apart  from  the  dark. 

He  did  not  speak.  She  did  not  speak.  He  sat  down 
and  began  to  take  off  his  shoes. 

As  he  laid  the  shoes  away  from  him  he  was  aware 
of  her  awareness  as  though  she  were  seeing  him  stoop 
forward  in  the  dark.  He  had  a  sense  of  his  own  motion 
as  a  pale  line  etched  across  a  thick  surface.  When  he 
unbuckled  his  belt  and  began  to  draw  his  trousers  over 
his  feet  he  felt  the  sharp  sweep  of  his  moving  arms 
tearing  the  quiescence  of  the  room. 

He  stood  up  naked.  His  cold  toes  gripped  the  hot 
nap  of  the  roughened  carpet.  He  pulled  on  his  pajamas 
and  the  white  cloth,  as  it  was  drawn  up  his  legs,  was 
cool  white  fire,  that  burnt  upward  from  his  bare  feet. 

The  room  seemed  a  final  blackness  into  which  the 
dark  of  the  night  outside  had  flowed  and  gathered  as 
in  a  pool.  Still  feeling  himself  burning  white  in  the 


94  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

cool  cloth,  Laurence  walked  to  the  side  of  the  bed  and 
looked  down  to  see  if  Winnie  were  asleep. 

Very  faintly  he  saw  the  rigid  line  of  her  body,  but 
through  her  nightdress  he  perceived  her  tense,  like  a 
protest.  He  could  not  see  her  eyes  but  he  shivered  with 
the  feeling  that  they  were  very  wide  open  and  sightless. 
The  darkness  was  against  her  eyes,  holding  her  rigid 
upon  the  white  sheet  in  the  dark  bed. 

"Laurie!" 

"I  thought  you  were  asleep. "  He  did  not  know  why 
he  lied. 

She  did  not  answer  at  once  and  he  stood  waiting. 
"Laurie !" 

He  felt  suddenly  feverish  in  his  cold  clothes. 

She  reached  out  and  touched  him.  The  feel  of  her 
hand  flowed  along  his  hand  and  up  the  veins  of  his 
arm.  He  felt  as  though  her  hand  had  been  laid  upon 
his  heart.  His  heart  beat  quickly.  He  denied  his 
heart.  He  was  passive.  He  stood  apart  from  him- 
self. He  was  unrelated  to  Winnie,  sick  and  tense  in 
the  bed. 

"Laurie !"  she  whispered  again.  She  drew  him  down 
beside  her. 

"You  are  sick,  Winnie,"  he  said.  Sure  of  himself, 
he  did  not  resist  her. 

She  reached  up,  groping  to  cover  his  mouth.  It 
made  her  angry  when  he  told  her  she  was  sick.  She 
did  not  want  him  to  build  up  words  between  them.  She 
tried  to  draw  him  into  herself,  into  the  formlessness  of 
contact. 

"Oh,  I  can't  sleep,  Laurie !    I  want  you  to  love  me." 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  95 

"I  do  love!  you,  Winnie.  If  I  seem  not  to  love  you  it 
is  because  you  are  sick." 

"I'm  not  sick!  I  won't  be  sick.  You  don't  love 
me!" 

"I  do!" 

"Please  love  me !  I'll  die  if  you  don't  love  me, 
Laurie !" 

He  resisted  her. 

She  drew  his  hand  to  her  and  placed  it  like  a  cup 
over  the  swell  of  her  breast. 

He  trembled.    "Winnie,  my  darling,  we  mustn't " 

"Laurie,  I'll  go  mad!" 

"Why,  Winnie?    I  love  you,  Winnie." 

But  he  did  not  love  her.  She  seemed  to  him  like  a 
sickness.  They  were  both  sick  with  her. 

"Kiss  me  again." 

He  kissed  her.  His  palm  tingled  with  the  strange- 
ness of  her  breast. 

"I  can't  let  you  go  'way  from  me,  Laurie !" 

"I  don't  want  to." 

She  held  him.  Suddenly  she  was  no  longer  strange. 
His  hand  read  the  strangeness  of  her  with  the  relief 
of  familiarity.  She  burned  him  with  wonder. 

Winnie  felt  him  yield  and  was  glad,  but  her  triumph 
congealed  in  agony.  She  fell  away  from  him.  She  was 
cold.  She  was  still.  The  throbbing  of  her  body  came 
to  her  like  an  echo  which  she  could  scarcely  hear.  She 
had  forgotten  the  meaning  of  it.  Who  was  this  man? 
She  was  afraid. 

She  waited  for  him  to  leave  her. 


96  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Laurence  was  tired  with  the  feeling  of  Winnie  that 
flowed  through  his  body.  She  was  in  his  veins  degrad- 
ing him  with  possession. 

If  she  should  have  a  child.  He  would  not  think  of  it. 
He  walked  over  to  the  couch  and  climbed  upon  it.  He 
would  not  think.  Driving  his  thoughts  from  him,  as 
he  lay  down,  he  felt  the  flap  of  the  window  shade  and 
the  respiration  of  Bobby  rattling  in  his  empty  mind. 

He  tossed.  His  body  was  hot.  The  sheet  he  pulled 
over  him  made  him  shiver.  Then  he  grew  cold  and 
longed  for  the  heat  to  cover  him  up.  He  felt  naked. 
He  wanted  to  lie  drowned  in  heat,  miles  thick  in  dark- 
ness. 


Winnie  awoke.  It  was  morning.  The  room  was  cool 
and  bright.  Sunshine  made  the  curtains  glow.  Patches 
of  light  shuddered  delicately  here  and  there  on  the 
carpet.  A  spear  of  sunshine  shattered  itself  on  the 
looking-glass. 

Laurence  slept  on  the  couch  with  one  arm  tossed  up 
and  his  head  thrown  back.  His  mouth  was  open.  His 
face  in  sleep  seemed  stupid  with  pain.  Bobby  slept, 
too,  stirring  and  murmuring  a  little.  Winnie  found 
something  oppressive  in  the  sight  of  people  yet  asleep 
like  this  in  the  full  blaze  of  the  sun. 

Winnie's  mind  was  clear  and  calm  with  the  ease 
that  came  of  sleep,  but  in  the  center  of  her  being  there 
was  a  dark  spot  of  indecipherable  vividness. 

Last  night.     A  dark  spot  of  terror.     Laurence  had 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  97 

been  frightened  by  what  they  had  done.  She  wanted 
him  to  be  frightened. 

Death.  If  she  had  a  child  she  would  suffer — not  he. 
White  and  holy,  she  felt  herself  a  beautiful  stillness  in 
the  turmoil  of  Laurence's,  cowardice. 

She  could  not  part  with  this  fear.  If  she  had  a  child 
Death  was  her  hand  from  which  he  could  not  escape. 

*         *         '* 

Midnight.  The  street  lamps  shone  into  the  bedroom,} 
making  bright  shadows  of  the  drawn  shades.  The 
bureau,  the  bed,  bits  of  furniture  here  and  there,  darker 
than  the  darkness,  reflected  the  light  heavily. 

Laurence  stood  outside  the  door  in  the  hall.  He  was 
trembling,  afraid  of  his  own  room.  He  had  stayed 
away  all  day  because  he  could  not  see  Winnie,  because 
he  hoped  that  when  he  reached  home  she  would  be 
asleep. 

It  was  quiet.  He  opened  the  door  and  stepped  in- 
side. The  sudden  draught  lifted  the  shades  ponder- 
ously and  let  them  drop  again. 

Fresh,  clean  wind  from  the  quiet  midnight  street 
surged  into  the  room.  Light  floated  in  under  the  lifted 
shades.  It  seemed  as  if  the  wind,  cold  and  shining, 
were  washing  away  the  darkness. 

Winnie  was  awake  again.    Laurence  stood  still. 

He  waited  a  long  time.  He  felt  shaken.  If  I  take 
her  again  she  will  die. 

He  did  not  believe  it.     He  went  toward  her  with  a 


98  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

nausea  of  relief.  "Die"  was  the  word  of  a  song.  It 
was  the  strange  music  of  passion  that  said  die. 

He  waited  by  the  bed.  He  wanted  her  to  tell  him  to 
go  away.  He  could  feel  her  still  and  looking  at  him. 

When  he  knelt  by  the  bed  and  reached  his  arms 
around  her  he  wanted  her  to  evade  him. 

"Winnie?"  She  trembled  when  he  touched  her.  He 
wanted  her  to  speak.  But  she  was  quiet. 

She  let  him  kiss  her  mouth. 

Death.  His  understanding  could  not  hold  the  vague- 
ness of  the  strange  escaping  word.  He  felt  her  thin- 
ning from  his  grasp.  His  veins  swelled  with  death. 

Then  he  became  the  death-giver,  glad,  in  spite  of 
himself,  of  the  drunkenness  of  moving  with  the  unseen. 
Through  the  banality  of  sex  which  oppressed  him,  there 
pushed  the  will  of  an  exalted  and  passionate  horror. 

He  took  her.    They  were  dead. 


Winnie  lay  face  downward  and  sobbed.  There  was 
no  triumph  in  her  now.  She  felt  herself  as  if  already 
large  with  child,  heavy  and  helpless.  Through  the 
darkness  of  her  closed  lids  she  could  see,  as  if  before 
her,  Laurence's  coarse  and  handsome  head,  his  eyes 
turned  toward  her  with  their  strained  gaze,  and  the 
odd  set  of  his  neck  that  kept  his  face  always  a  little 
to  one  side.  She  knew  now  how  much  she  hated  him. 

*         *         * 
Laurence,  walking  along  the  deserted  streets,  was 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  99 

relieved  to  find  the  long  vistas  ending  in  darkness.  The 
night  rose  high  and  expressionless  before  him.  Be- 
yond the  dim  lights,  the  violet-blue  horizon  was  a  clear 
quiet  stretch  like  a  lake  of  glass  covered  with  flowering 
stars. 

His  pain  was  choked  in  him,  suffocated  by  the  quiet. 

His  mind  was  sick  yet  with  Winnie's  sickness,  but 
the  pain  of  her  no  longer  belonged  to  him.  He  won- 
dered if  she  would  have  a  child,  if  he  had  killed  her. 
But  the  agony  of  his  conjecture  related  to  something 
already  finished.  She  had  made  him  love  her  against 
them  both.  He  did  not  want  love  like  that.  It  could 
never  be  otherwise.  They  were  separated  from  each 
other  by  their  own  bodies. 


PART  II 

AS  Mr.  Farley  walked  home  from  business  he  had  a 
troubled  look.  When  he  came  into  his  own  street 
he  scarcely  seemed  aware  of  his  whereabouts.  For  sev- 
eral days  he  had  been  restless  and  ill  at  ease  with  him- 
self. His  resentment  toward  Alice  was  blunted  and  dis- 
persed by  his  determination  to  think  well  of  the  world. 
He  needed  this  charity  to  think  well  of  himself.  What 
disturbed  and  depressed  him  most  was  her  forcible  sug- 
gestion of  incompleteness  in  things  which  he  had  looked 
upon  as  finished. 

He  went  up  the  steps.  There  was  a  Kansas  City 
newspaper  in  the  box.  It  hurt  him  to  take  it  out  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket. 

When  he  opened  the  front  door  and  stepped  into 
the  empty  hall,  the  first  look  of  the  place  pained  him 
with  its  harsh  familiarity;  but,  when  he  had  laid  his 
hat  down,  he  passed  on  into  the  living-room  and  seated 
himself  in  one  of  the  old  tapestry-covered  chairs,  and 
his  antagonism  and  desire  to  exist  in  separateness 
melted  in  the  faintly  bitter  sense  of  inevitability  which 
he  experienced.  The  old  house  with  the  low  ceilings 
and  broad  stone  mantelpieces  and  the  walls  hung  in 
stained,  dark  figured  papers  (just  as  he  had  bought  it 
with  the  first  savings  of  his  married  life)  represented 

100 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  101 

the  known,  asserting  him  through  his  identity  with  it. 

He  leaned  forward,  closing  his  eyes  and  pinching 
his  lids  together  between  his  thumbs  and  forefingers. 

Mrs.  Farley  had  heard  him  come.  She  could  not 
keep  away.  When  she  entered  the  room,  however,  she 
pretended  to  be  surprised. 

"I — oh,  I  didn't  hear  you !  I  came  for  a  dust  cloth. 
Winnie  has  gone  out  in  the  Price's  carriage  to  do  some 
shopping."  Mrs.  Farley  scattered  her  words  before 
her  as  a  cuttlefish  throws  out  its  vaguely  disguising 
substance. 

Mr.  Farley  lifted  his  head  with  a  heavy,  patient 
smile,  but  she  would  not  look  at  him. 

"Well,  well.  I  thought  that  dust  cloth  was  here." 
She  fumbled  among  the  chairs.  She  was  very  matter- 
of-fact  and  intent.  She  saw  that  he  was  depressed  and 
it  made  her  uneasy. 

Mr.  Farley  could  see  her  profile :  her  lined,  withered 
lips,  her  dry,  finely  wrinkled  skin  which  was  a  thin 
film  of  disguise  over  her  melting  flesh.  The  expression 
of  nervous  good  humor  in  her  evasive  eyes  was  like  a 
gauze  scarf  laid  over  a  spectacle  of  horror. 

The  two  people,  afraid  of  their  fear  of  each  other, 
were  like  alien  creatures  haltered  with  one  chain. 

"Can  I  help  you?"  Mr.  Farley  asked. 

"No.     No.     Alice  hasn't  come  home,  has  she?" 

"As  far  as  I  know,  she  hasn't.  Shall  I  send  Her  to 
you  when  she  comes?" 

"No.     That's  all  right!     That's  all  right!" 

Mrs.  Farley  hurried  out.  She  went  into  the  dining- 
room.  A  last  streak  of  sunshine  filtered  through  the 


102  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

clouds  and  came  over  the  back  yard  into  the  room. 
There  were  some  tumblers  in  a  tray  on  the  sideboard 
that  caught  the  specks  of  light  that  were  like  bubbles 
of  fire  in  the  colorless  glass.  Each  day  the  sun  touched 
the  same  spots  with  the  same  light.  There  was  as- 
surance and  finality  in  the  undeviating  rays  of  the  tired 
sun.  Mrs.  Farley  felt  quiet  among  the  chairs  and 
tables.  She  saw  some  lint  on  the  ragged  sun-washed 
carpet,  and  stooped  to  pick  it  off.  She  craved  inti- 
macy with  the  still  things  her  touch  could  dominate. 
They  enlarged  her.  And  she  was  afraid  of  those  who 
would  speak  some  terrible  word  of  love  or  money  to 
destroy  their  permanence. 

When  she  went  to  the  sideboard  and  opened  the 
drawer  in  which  the  tablecloths  were  kept,  her  furtive 
thoughts  slipped  between  the  linen,  and,  as  her  hands 
moved  over  it,  the  cool  glazed  feel  of  the  starched  fabric 
was  a  denial  of  change  and  heat. 

In  the  living-room,  Mr.  Farley  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  again,  his  eyes  half  closed.  In  his  low  chair  his 
gaze  was  on  a  level  with  the  polished  top  of  the  table, 
glazed  silverish  with  the  dimming  light.  The  arms  of 
the  imitation  mahogany  rocker  were  as  bright  and 
enigmatic  as  glass.  Some  pictures  on  the  wall  were  in- 
decipherable beneath  streaked  reflections. 

An  old  painting  of  Lake  Lucerne  hung  over  the  man- 
tel shelf.  The  pigment  was  faded  and  the  canvas  was 
seamed  with  fine,  irregular  cracks.  When  Mr.  Farley 
glanced  upward  at  this  picture  he  experienced  a  volup- 
tuous sense  of  futility.  He  stared  at  it  a  long  time. 

But  the  spell  of  inertia  did  not  last.     He  became 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  108 

uneasy  again.  He  was  afraid  his  wife  might  come  back, 
so  he  walked  across  the  hall  to  the  disorderly  little  room 
that  was  called  his  "study." 

There  were  a  desk,  and  a  leather  lounge  with  pro- 
truding springs,  and,  on  the  walls,  two  or  three  old 
advertising  calendars  decorated  with  hunting  scenes  or 
full-color  pictures  of  setter  dogs. 

Mr.  Farley  sat  down  before  the  littered  desk  and 
began  his  letter,  "Dear  Helen." 

He  wrote  to  her  about  his  regard  for  her  and  their 
mutual  sense  of  responsibility  toward  their  son,  and 
he  wanted  to  say  something  else.  But  when  he  at- 
tempted to  recall  more  intimate  phrases  it  revived  his 
sense  of  sin.  He  felt  embarrassed  and  gave  it  up. 


It  was  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening.  The  sun  had 
gone.  The  sky  at  the  zenith  was  pale,  but  along  the 
horizon  the  foam-white  clouds  glowed  with  pink.  From 
the  city  light  had  receded  like  a  tide  and  rows  of  house- 
tops on  the  length  of  the  sky  were  like  objects  left  there 
by  a  departing  sea.  They  were  separate  and  waited. 

As  darkness  gathered,  it  gathered  first  in  the  house 
fronts  like  an  added  heaviness.  Above  the  houses  the 
sky  floated — higher,  paler.  The  sky  dilated  and 
soared. 

Then  the  shining  pallor  grew  dim.  The  sky  sent  it- 
self down  in  grayness  to  the  dark  streets  where  the  lamp 
lights  floated  in  the  dust  as  in  clouds  of  ash.  The 


104  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

house  fronts,  flaked  with  light,  disintegrated  in  the 
general  vagueness. 

Horace  Ridge  was  ready  to  depart.  On  his  last 
night  before  sailing  he  had  sent  for  Alice  to  help  him 
finish  some  work.  She  passed  out  of  the  twilight  into 
the  tiled  corridor  of  the  building  in  which  he  lived.  The 
marble  walls  wavered  in  light.  Lights,  clustered  above 
the  wainscot,  stabbed  her  eyes.  A  sleepy  hallboy  in 
a  tan  uniform  vacantly  watched  her  approach. 

She  ignored  the  elevators  and  walked  up  the  one 
flight  of  stairs  and  along  the  brown  velvet  carpet  to  the 
door  she  wanted.  When  she  rang  the  small  bell  under 
the  brass  plate  she  heard  the  tinkle  in  the  depths  of 
her  being,  sharp,  like  a  light  moving  under  deep  water. 
So  keen  was  her  perception  of  his  coming  that  she  was 
not  conscious  of  separate  incidents — footsteps,  the  sigh 
of  the  opening  door.  But  in  one  act  he  was  there  in 
the  place  where  she  had  expected  him. 

He  held  a  hand  over  his  eyes  that  were  guarded  with 
a  green  shade. 

"Miss  Alice.  I'm  merciless  these  days.  Must  get 
something  done  while  the  doing  of  it  is  in  me."  He 
smiled  with  his  mouth,  his  eyes  mysterious  out  of  sight. 

"You're  merciless  to  yourself.  We  all  know  that," 
Alice  said. 

He  walked  after  her  into  the  library.  Without  see- 
ing him,  she  was  aware  of  the  uncertainty  of  his  tired 
steps.  She  was  ashamed  of  her  deep  consciousness  of 
his  hesitation,  knowing  that  he  tried  to  conceal  his  half 
gestures  from  her. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  105 

He  sat  down  rather  heavily  and  she  stood  in  the 
center  of  the  book-lined  room,  unpinning  her  hat. 

"I  would  like  to  have  taken  you  for  a  lark  on  my  last 
night  instead  of  setting  you  to  work.  You'll  be  glad 
to  forget  about  me."  His  mouth  still  smiled  and  his 
big  hand  moved  up  to  his  eyes  under  the  shade. 

Alice  did  not  answer.  Then  she  said,  "Are  you  sure 
you  feel  well  enough  to  work?"  She  had  the  brusque 
presumptuous  manner  which  she  knew  he  tolerated. 

"The  old  dog  has  a  lot  of  fight  in  him  yet.  You 
mustn't  draw  too  many  conclusions  from  appearances." 

The  big  room  with  the  high  shelves  was  gloomy  in 
candle  light. 

"These  esthetic  shadows  will  spoil  your  eyes.  You'd 
better  get  that  student  lamp  down,"  he  said. 

Alice  walked  briskly  to  a  stand  in  the  corner  and 
took  down  the  light.  She  carried  it  over  to  his  table. 

"You'd  better  move.  It  shines  there."  It  hurt  her 
to  tell  him  what  to  do. 

"I'll  sit  with  my  back  to  it." 

Alice  pushed  a  heap  of  books  aside  and  arranged 
the  green  cord  attachment  over  the  crowded  table. 

Blindness.  Better  after  all.  He  can't  see  me,  she 
thought  bitterly. 

She  sat  down  with  her  writing  pad  in  her  lap. 

He  rubbed  his  forehead  wearily.  His  shoulders 
sagged,  big  beneath  his  loose  coat.  There  was  passive 
strength  in  his  consciousness  of  defeat.  She  was  aware 
of  it. 

The  room  closed  them  like  a  coffin.  Their  life  was 
their  own.  It  did  not  flow  in  from  the  street. 


106  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Beyond  the  window  the  square  was  sprinkled  with 
lights.  The  thick-leafed  trees  were  clouds  of  darkness, 
but  here  and  there  separate  leaves  up  against  the  lamps 
glistened  like  wet  metal. 

He  sighed.  "I'm  trying  to  line  up  my  vocabulary  in 
battle  order,  Miss  Alice." 

"I'm  ready.     Go  ahead." 

He  did  not  begin  at  once.  She  watched  his  bowed 
head — thick,  gray-sprinkled  brown  hair.  There  was 
beard  on  his  cheek. 

Suddenly  she  had  a  horror  of  herself  creeping  upon 
his  thoughts  through  his  weakness.  She  shuddered, 
shifting  her  book. 

Dark.  Flesh,  aware  of  the  world,  slipping  away. 
Flesh  touched  by  the  world  without. 

"As  regards  the  international  polity  of  the " 

She  interrupted.  "Say  that  again,  Mr.  Ridge."  He 
had  dictated  several  sentences  and  she  had  not  heard 
him. 

"Since  the "  She  began  to  write.  The  wind 

fluttered  the  paper  on  her  knee.  Her  hands  with  big 
knuckles  moved  decisively  over  the  sheet. 


"I'm  wearing  you  out?" 
"Bother!    You're  not!" 

He  liked  her  positiveness.     "A  half  a  paragraph  or 
so  and  I  will  have  reached  the  end  of  my  tether." 
"Go  ahead." 
When  he  had  finished  he  leaned  back,  turning  himself 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  107 

so  that  he  could  look  at  her,  and  she  could  tell  by  his 
mouth  that  he  was  happier. 

"I've  taxed  your  patience." 

"Haven't  any  patience,"  Alice  said,  making  a  wry 
face.  She  wanted  to  cry. 

She  stood  up.  "I'll  have  this  all  typed  by  tomorrow 
afternoon.  When  does  the  boat  sail?" 

"Ten  tomorrow  night." 

They  were  silent.  He  still  smiled,  his  blunt  fingers 
tapping  the  arm  of  his  chair,  but  the  corners  of  his 
full  lips  sagged  with  fatigue  under  the  stiff  edges  of 
his  mustache  and  he  was  pale. 

Alice  got  her  hat  down  from  the  shelf. 

"You  need  some  one  to  take  care  of  you,"  she  said, 
trying  to  sound  angry.  She  was  afraid  her  words  hurt 
him.  Her  heart  beat  very  fast. 

"Young  Harrison  is  going  along  to  keep  me  from 
walking  overboard  in  an  absent  moment." 

They  were  quiet  again.  Alice  could  not  make  up 
her  mind  to  go  out.  The  trees  in  the  square  seemed  to 
have  crowded  closer  against  the  open  windows.  The 
leaves  looked  like  tin  in  the  auras  of  light.  She  stared 
into  the  street  that  had  grown  still. 

"Well— if  I  don't  get  down  to  the  boat  III  send 
somebody."  She  held  out  her  hand. 

He  stood  up.  Being  so  big,  he  looked  more  helpless 
behind  his  shade.  He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  in  both 
his. 

"God  bless  you,  Miss  Alice." 

She  could  not  speak. 


108  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

He  saw  that  she  was  disturbed.  He  was  kind,  a  big 
stout  man,  smiling.  Her  throat  closed. 

"Take  a  real  rest,"  she  ordered  in  a  short,  thick, 
over-casual  voice.  Their  hands  dropped  apart. 

"I'll  probably  be  forced  to  in  spite  of  myself." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  of  it."  She  turned  quickly  and  went 
toward  the  door.  He  followed  her  and  stumbled  a 
little.  She  tried  not  to  look  back  at  him. 

"This  has  been  awfully  good  of  you,"  he  said  after 
her  in  his  slow,  kind  way. 

She  could  not  bear  his  slow  kindness.  She  did  not 
answer. 

"Can't  I  get  a  taxicab  for  you?" 

"Couldn't.  Feel  uncomfortable  with  such  luxuries. 
You  go  to  bed  and  rest." 

She  glanced  back  once.  He  stood,  huge  in  his 
fatigue,  with  his  drooped,  gentle  mouth,  in  an  attitude 
as  if  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  his  hands. 

"Good-bye." 

She  bit  her  lips.    "Good-bye." 

The  door  closed.  She  was  in  the  corridor  stupid 
with  light.  On  the  stairs  she  met  the  hallboy,  who  stood 
aside.  He  had  a  vacant  gaze  as  if  the  empty  brilliance 
of  the  hall  had  dizzied  him. 

When  she  passed  into  the  still  street  she  felt  as 
though  she  slipped  into  an  inner  darkness.  She  was 
two  and  the  self  that  suffered,  heavy  and  dark,  sank 
through  an  oblivious  other  and  out  of  knowledge. 

I  cannot  bear  it ! 

She  went  through  the  park.     There  were  people  on 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  109 

the  benches  in  the  darkness.  She  walked  quickly  past 
them  into  the  bare-swept  circles  under  the  lamps. 

What  shall  I  do?    Lies.    I  think  I'm  going  mad. 

She  went  on.  Her  heels  clicked  on  the  deserted  street. 
Against  the  window  of  a  house  she  passed  a  lamp  with 
a  red  shade  glowed  softly.  The  new  moon  over  the 
trees  was  like  a  fragment  of  ice. 

What  does  it  come  to?  Sheep.  Wag.  Wag  tail. 
Mistress  Mary.  Far  away  over  the  hills.  The  street. 
Dark  over  the  hills.  Dark.  Darkness  is  one.  There 
are  no  eyes  in  the  dark. 

Horace. 

Walking,  she  pressed  her  knuckles  against  her  lips 
and  dug  her  teeth  into  the  flesh.  Sweet  to  feel.  Softly 
her  agony  flowed  through  the  wound  of  her  teeth. 

When  she  reached  home  she  passed  quickly  through 
the  dimly  lit  hallway  and  so  up  the  long  stairs,  escaping 
notice. 

The  hinges  creaked  as  she  opened  the  door  of  her 
dark  room.  She  went  in  quickly  and  closed  it  and 
rested  against  the  lintel,  panting,  her  head  thrown 
back. 

Her  mind  was  fire  and  ice.    She  must  kill  this  agony. 

A  little  light  floated  in  from  the  street  through  the 
open  window.  She  could  see  her  bureau  with  its  white 
cover  and  the  sparkle  of  toilet  instruments  on  it.  She 
went  there  and  picked  up  a  pair  of  scissors,  plunging 
the  points  twice  into  her  flesh  with  quick  stabs. 

Feeling  numbness  and  relief,  she  stood  stupidly 
watching  the  blood,  dark  and  colorless,  gather  on  her 
forearm. 


110  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Mary  had  a  little  lamb.  I'm  mad.  Washed  in  the 
blood  of  the  lamb. 

She  sank  to  her  knees,  then  relaxed  on  the  floor  in 
a  half  sitting  posture,  her  head  thrown  back  against 
the  bed,  her  hat  awry,  one  hand  holding  the  ache  of 
her  bleeding  wrist,  the  glow  from  the  street  lamp  be- 
wildering her  eyes. 


Mr.  Price,  gruff  and  solemn,  tried  to  hasten  the  de- 
parture. "Well,  Winifred,  you're  ready?"  His  smoky 
eyes  were  everywhere  and  on  no  one.  He  waved  the 
hand  that  held  his  hat. 

Winnie  had  on  a  new  cloak  and  a  pretty  little  blue 
straw  turban.  .  .  .  Laurie  will  be  angry  when  he  sees 
Mother  has  been  buying  me  clothes. 

"Bobby — Bobby,  my  darling!"  She  hugged  him  to 
her,  trying  to  wring  from  him  some  assurance  that  she 
would  be  with  him  when  she  was  gone. 

Allowing  himself  to  be  kissed,  he  stirred  an  instant 
and  was  calm.  He  was  water,  broad  and  profound. 
Winnie  felt  herself  sinking  into  his  passive  depths. 
"Oh,  Bobby!" 

"You  hurts  my  arm." 

She  drew  away  from  him  and  felt  part  of  her  still 
there,  lost  in  his  passive  clearness. 

"You  won't  forget  Mamma?  Mamma  Farley  will 
help  you  write  me  letters.  You  know  how  you  can 
print — nice  printing  with  pictures  ?  I'm  going  to  bring 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  111 

you  something  beautiful.  Grandma  Price  and  I  are 
going  to  bring  you  something — oh,  lovely !" 

"Yes,  my  dear.  We'll  have  something  nice  for  a  good 
little  boy  who  doesn't  forget  us."  Mrs.  Price  touched 
his  hair  with  taut,  wistful  gestures. 

Winnie's  cheeks  were  bright. 

Mrs.  Price  had  on  a  trim  black  traveling  suit  of 
handsome  cloth  and  a  simple  but  distinguished  hat, 
very  precisely  worn. 

"Is  Laurie  upstairs,  Mamma  Farley?" 

Mrs.  Farley  looked  up,  abstracted.  She  dangled  in 
the  general  emotion  like  a  puppet  suspended  over  a 
torrent,  swayed  but  unmoved.  "I  think  so,  dear."  She 
tried  not  to  see  Mrs.  Price,  so  like  herself  but  lifted 
rip  by  social  confidence. 

"I'm  going  up  to  see  him." 

"All  right,  dear." 

"Nine  o'clock,"  Mr.  Price  said  sternly,  taking  out  his 
watch  and  looking  at  it  with  an  air  of  reprimand. 

"Just  a  moment,  Father." 

Winnie  ran  up  the  long  dingy  stairs  to  the  door  of 
her  room.  It  was  open  and  before  she  entered  she 
saw  Laurence  standing  in  the  confusion  of  packing 
which  she  had  left,  and  looking  at  a  book. 

When  she  stood  beside  him  he  glanced  up  carefully. 
His  lips  were  drawn.  She  thought  he  smiled  at  her  as 
if  she  were  a  stranger. 

"Off?" 

She  was  breathing  quickly,  her  eyes  shining  at  him 
reproachfully  through  her  fluff  of  hair  under  the  new 
hat. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

The  gas  light  to  one  side  made  his  hair  glossy  and 
threw  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  his  cheeks. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  the  train,  Laurie?" 

"Don't  you  think  the  family  will  be  happier  if  I 
am  not  there  to  spoil  the  rapport  of  departure?" 
Smiling,  he  stared  at  her  with  his  hard,  pained  eyes. 
She  had  the  feeling  that  he  was  a  long  way  off.  She 
felt  sorry  for  herself. 

"Oh,  Laurie,  please  have  some  pity  for  me!  Don't 
be  nasty  tonight." 

"It's  pity  for  you  that  keeps  me  here,  my  dear  girl." 

She  could  not  speak.  Death.  I  may  be  pregnant. 
A  sharp,  small  fear  bit  her  breast  with  its  teeth.  Be- 
cause she  was  hurt  inside  she  despised  his  ignorance. 
She  wanted  to  poison  his  calm  with  her  fear,  but  the 
triumph  of  injury  was  sweet  to  her.  She  held  it  close. 

"You'll  be  glad  now."    She  was  trembling. 

"Glad  of  what,  dear  girl?" 

"That  I'm  gone." 

"Winnie,  please?  Not  tonight."  He  gazed  straight 
at  her.  His  smiling  patience  was  too  bitter.  Her  pride 
could  not  forgive  him.  Tears  of  shame  and  hate  rose 
to  her  eyes. 

"You  don't  love  me  any  more.     I  know  that." 

He  would  not  look  at  her.  Turning  over  the  leaves 
of  the  book,  his  small  hand  shook.  Its  whiteness  and 
delicacy  irritated  her. 

"Oh,  Laurie,  I  can't  go  away  angry!"  She  put  her 
hand  on  his  sleeve.  The  roughness  and  realness  of  his 
sleeve  hurt  her  hand.  She  did  not  want  it. 

Without  looking  up,  he  reached  an  arm  around  her. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  113 

"Have  you  talked  to  the  doctor,  Winnie?'*  He  could 
not  look  at  her. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  lying.  When  she  lied  she 
blamed  him  more. 

"Are  you  sure  you're  all  right,  Winnie?"  He  forced 
out  the  words  very  deliberately.  They  were  like  stones 
to  his  lips. 

She  hesitated  an  instant.  Then  she  said,  "Yes.  Kiss 
me.  Oh,  Laurie,  it's  so  awful  I — it's  so  awful  I " 

He  put  the  book  down  and  faced  her  in  her  embrace. 
She  thought  he  seemed  calm  and  satisfied  as  though  the 
doctor  had  become  proxy  for  his  conscience.  Winnie's 
eyes,  fiercely  soft,  stared  into  his  and  made  him  feel  furtive 
and  depressed.  He  kissed  her  to  keep  from  looking  at  her. 

When  their  mouths  were  together  his  cruelty  made 
her  strong.  She  forgave  him.  He  was  a  dark  thing 
close  to  her,  smothering  her  with  his  breath.  His 
clothed  body  dissolved  in  her  immediate  recognition  of 
his  flesh,  and  she  had  a  sickish  sensation  as  of  life 
stirring  in  her.  Shamelessly  kind  and  unmoved,  he  had 
believed  this  impossible  thing. 

She  moved  away  from  him  in  spite  of  herself  and 
with  a  pang  she  felt  how  his  hand  dropped  away  in 
relief  that  she  did  not  want  it.  She  would  not  go  away. 

"You  don't  love  me!" 

"Please  don't  let  us  torture  each  other,  Winnie. 
You  are  going  away  to  get  well." 

"Suppose  I  should  die,  Laurence." 

"But  you  won't  die."  Again  he  drew  her  uncom- 
fortably to  him.  His  head  throbbed.  He  tried  to 
give  her  what  she  wanted. 


114  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Her  shuddering  lips  moved  over  his  face  and  he 
drooped  helplessly  under  them  like  a  beast  in  the  rain. 
He  tried  to  love  her. 

She  hated  him  so  that  she  could  not  bear  to  have 
him  go  away  from  her.  Death.  She  tried  to  keep  that 
word  in  her.  It  was  a  child  she  had  conceived  to  which 
she  refused  birth.  She  wanted  to  carry  death  dead  in 
her. 

"If  anything  terrible  happens — if  I  have  to  be  oper- 
ated on!"  Her  words  stumbled. 

"But  nothing  will  happen.  You're  nervous,  Win- 
nie. You're  all  nervous  and  sick.  This  stay  in  the 
country  will  make  you  over." 

"And  you'll  be  glad  to  see  me  well  again  ?"  She 
leaned  back  from  him,  searching  his  set,  kind  face  with 
her  tearful  eyes. 

"Of  course,  my  dear  girl.     Of  course." 

"Winnie!"  Alice  called. 

"I'm  coming !"  Winnie  gave  him  another  swift  little 
bitter  kiss  and  slipped  from  his  arms.  As  she  went  out 
she  glanced  back,  smiling  and  pathetic.  He  hurt  her 
and  she  wanted  to  remind  him  how  pretty  she  was. 
She  was  small  and  light  with  dread. 

His  being  composed  itself  in  darkness  and  peace,  but 
his  composure  was  an  ache,  blank  and  broad. 


Above  the  housetops  huge  masses  of  cloud,  smutted 
like  torrents  of  gray-white  snow,  moved  steadily,  surf 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  115 

of  a  gigantic  tide  sweeping  the  purplish-blue  stillness 
of  the  far  vacant  sky.  It  was  noonday. 

Alice  passed  briskly  up  the  steps  and  opened  the 
dusty  front  door. 

"Mamma?" 

Mrs.  Farley  was  in  the  dusk-shrouded  living-room  be- 
hind drawn  shades.  She  did  not  answer.  When  she 
heard  Alice's  heavy  footsteps  she  shivered. 

Alice  came  to  the  living-room  door  and  looked  in. 
Her  mother  squinted  at  her  bewilderedly,  then  glanced 
away. 

"You  still  here,  are  you  ?  I 've  been  down  and  finished 
up  the  business  Mr.  Ridge  left  me  to  do." 

Mrs.  Farley  rose  wearily,  as  if  driven.  Her  knees 
were  slack  under  her  trailing  skirt.  Her  posture 
sagged.  "I  should  have  started  the  children's  lunch," 
she  said. 

"I'll  start  the  children's  lunch,  but  it  is  foolish  for 
you  to  sit  moping  here." 

"Moping!"  Mrs.  Farley  scoffed.  Her  throat  shook. 
She  gulped  and  her  thin  neck  showed  a  corded  undula- 
tion along  its  length. 

"Well,  what  if  you  did  see  that  Papa  had  a  telegram 
from  Mrs.  Wilson?  What  of  it?  Is  it  anything  new?" 

Mrs.  Farley's  tight  mouth  puckered  along  the  edges 
like  fruit  left  too  long  in  the  sun.  She  stared  resent- 
fully at  Alice.  "New?"  Mrs.  Farley  interrogated. 

Alice  took  off  her  hat  and  whirled  it  in  her  hand. 
"I  don't  see  why  the  fact  that  she  happens  to  be  pass- 
ing through  town  makes  the  situation  between  you  and 
Papa  worse  than  it  is  all  the  time.  You  know  the  re- 


116  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

lation  between  them.  It's  gone  on  for  twelve  years 
now.  She  probably  thinks  her  claim  on  him  is  just  as 
good  as  yours." 

For  a  moment  the  hard  center  of  Mrs.  Farley's 
vision  dissolved  in  unshed  tears  and  she  saw  Alice  far 
off  as  in  a  vision  of  the  dying. 

"Why  don't  you  quit  this  thing  if  you  don't  like 
it?"  Alice  went  on.  "You  can  come  and  live  with  me 
and  leave  Papa  to  do  what  he  pleases." 

Then  Mrs.  Farley's  face  went  hard  again  with  malice 
and  fear,  and  her  brow  flushed  with  a  streak  like  a 
whiplash.  Her  fingers  had  short,  blunt,  yellowish  nails 
flecked  with  white.  Her  hands  made  impotent  gestures. 
She  was  like  a  sheep  searching  for  a  gate  when  she 
must  leap  over  a  wall.  "It's  evident  how  little  you 
understand  your  father,"  she  said  defiantly. 

Alice  gave  a  disagreeable  laugh.  She  felt  herself 
building  her  mother's  world,  sound  like  her  own  upon 
ramparts  of  pain. 

"Your  father  has  always  felt  that  he  had  to  make 
atonement  for  what  he  did — that  no  matter  what  kind 

of  a  woman  Mrs.  Wilson  was  that  she "  Mrs. 

Farley  could  not  go  on. 

"Well,  he  didn't  have  a  child  by  her  because  he  pre- 
ferred you."  * 

Mrs.  Farley's  whole  face  trembled  with  her  .sense  of 
outrage  and  impotence.  Her  eyes,  squinting  a  little, 
were  those  of  a  creature  who  takes  no  pride  in  its 
rage.  "Whatever  you  say,  I  can't  forget  my  duty  to 
your  father.  I  wish  you  had  never  heard  of  this! 
You're  a  coarse,  cold  woman,  Alice." 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  117 

Alice  smiled,  glad  her  mother  had  hurt  her.  "Yes, 
you've  told  me  that  before." 

They  faced  each  other,  Mrs.  Farley  trying  to  speak 
but  unable.  Alice  saw  how  ugly  her  mother  was  and 
was  ashamed  of  seeing  it.  Mrs.  Farley  turned  her 
head  a  little  and  there  were  spiked  wisps  of  iron-gray 
hair  clinging  on  the  nape  of  her  scrawny,  freckled  neck. 

"Let  me  go  out!"  Mrs.  Farley  said,  stumbling  sud- 
denly toward  the  door  in  a  blind  gesture  of  protest  and 
escape. 

"I'm  not  keeping  you,"  Alice  said. 

"Everything  would  be  well  enough  if  you  weren't  bent 
on  persecuting  me!"  Mrs.  Farley  called  back. 

Alice  was  very  calm.  "I'm  not  persecuting  you.  If 
you  really  prefer  to  go  on  this  way,  tied  like  a  millstone 
about  Papa's  neck,  it  is  your  own  affair,  I  suppose; 
though  I  can't  help  protesting  when  I  see  it." 

Mrs.  Farley  was  gone.  Alice  felt  a  kind  of  hysteri- 
cal relief  in  her  mother's  exit. 


It  was  a  cool,  delicate  morning.  The  curtains  swung 
in  the  opened  windows  before  the  cool,  darkened  room. 
The"  iron  rails  along  the  area  made  light  black  em- 
broideries of  shadow  among  blobs  and  flecks  of  gold  on 
the  basement  front.  Even  the  tap  of  hoofs  in  the 
street  sounded  as  though  the  horses  trod  in  hesitation. 

In  Mrs.  Farley's  dining-room  light  shivered  against 
the  edges  of  knives  and  forks  laid  on  the  clean  cloth, 
and  flew  off  in  needle-fine  sparks. 


118  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Laurence  had  gone,  but  Mr.  Farley  and  Alice  had 
just  seated  themselves  at  table.  Mr.  Farley  was  more 
abstracted  and  uncomfortable  than  usual. 

"Isn't  your  mother  well,  Alice?"  he  asked  in  a  low 
voice.  "She  hasn't  sat  down  and  last  night  she  scarcely 
ate  anything.  I  hate  to  see  her  spend  so  much  time  in 
the  kitchen." 

"She  saw  the  telegram  you  dropped  yesterday  morn- 
ing," Alice  said. 

Mr.  Farley  flushed  and  fine  lines  came  between  his 
eyes,  but  before  he  could  say  what  hovered  on  his  lips, 
Mrs.  Farley  came  in  and  he  was  silent. 

Mrs.  Farley's  arms  were  limp  with  the  weight  of  the 
tray  she  carried.  Her  fingers  clutched  at  the  edges. 
There  was  something  exasperating  in  her  manner  that 
suggested  the  senseless  tremor  of  frightened  canaries* 
wings.  Her  hands  were  unsteady  and  some  of  the  con- 
tents of  the  coffee  urn  splashed  on  her  wrist. 

Alice  got  up.  "Give  me  that  tray."  She  took  it 
firmly.  "Now  you  sit  down  and  eat." 

"I — I've  had  something  to  eat,"  Mrs.  Farley  said 
weakly,  at  the  same  time  sitting  down. 

Mr.  Farley  glanced  at  her  but  looked  away  quickly. 
He  could  not  bear  to  see  her  fear  which  was  like  a  fear 
of  him.  He  cleared  his  throat.  "Aren't  you  feeling 
well,  Mother?" 

Alice  kept  a  rigorous  gaze  full  of  cruel  pity  steadily 
upon  her  mother's  face. 

"Why,  yes — I "  She  turned  to  Alice.  "I  have 

so  much  to  do,  Alice,  I  can't "  As  she  assisted  her- 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  119 

self  to  her  feet,  her  flabby  grip  fell  from  the  edge  of  the 
table.  She  swayed  a  little.  "I  left  the  oven  on/* 

"You  sit  down."    Alice  tried  to  push  her  back. 

"No,  no !  I  must  turn  it  off."  She  brushed  by  and 
left  Alice  looking  after  her. 

Mr.  Farley  tried  to  be  elaborately  unmindful  of  by- 
play and  he  pretended  not  to  see  his  wife's  wearily 
bowed  head  and  the  palsied  tremor  of  her  thin  neck. 

As  she  went  out,  her  shoulders  rounded,  her  knees 
loose,  her  head  thrust  forward,  her  feet  dragging  the 
carpet,  she  left  vividly  the  impression  of  her  very  thin 
neck,  taut  and  elongated,  like  the  neck  of  a  goose  when 
it  attempts  flight.  She  held  her  sharp  elbows  at  right 
angles  to  her  sides  with  the  same  rigid  anticipation  of 
haste. 

"Has — has "  Mr.  Farley  could  not  bear  to  con- 
fess to  the  actuality.  "Couldn't  you  let  her  rest  for 
a  week,  Alice?  You  don't  expect  to  get  another  posi- 
tion at  once.  As  long  as  you  are  at  home  it  seems  to 
me  that  you  and  I  could  combine  to  keep  the  house 
going  and  let  her  off ." 

"She  wouldn't  do  it.  Pottering  around  consoles  her 
more  than  anything  else." 

There  was  silence.  Mr.  Farley  gulped  his  coffee. 
His  face  remained  flushed  and  there  were  tears  of  dis- 
comfort in  his  eyes. 

"You  know  what's  the  matter  with  Mamma,  Father!" 
Alice's  subdued  voice  sounded  to  him  almost  threaten- 
ing. 

Mr.  Farley  gazed  at  his  daughter  helplessly.    "Why, 


120  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

no — I — no "  She  looked  so  much  like  a  startled 

baby  that  Alice  wanted  to  laugh. 

"She  knows  Mrs.  Wilson  is  in  town  and " 

Mr.  Farley  interrupted  hurriedly.  "But,  my  dear 
child,  I — I "  He  moved  his  knife  and  fork  nerv- 
ously about. 

Alice  felt  strong.  Her  frankness  gave  her  the  relief 
which  the  maniac  feels  in  his  cruelty  when  he  touches 
flesh  and  it  responds  to  him  with  sentience.  "Don't 
think  I  don't  understand  your  situation,  Father.  I  do. 
I'm  simply  trying  to  look  at  it  from  Mamma's  stand- 
point." 

He  glanced  up.  Their  eyes  met.  Alice  had  swung 
back  on  the  two  rear  legs  of  her  chair,  her  coarse  hand 
on  the  edge  of  the  table  holding  her  steady.  Her  eyes 
were  self-righteously  excited,  her  mouth  harsh  with  de- 
termination. 

To  make  him  feel !  She  longed  for  that  sympathetic 
quiver.  Darkness.  Behind  her  thoughts,  two  sharp 
strokes  from  the  scissors  let  out  the  clotted  honey  of 
pain,  too  sweet  for  the  veins. 

"Mamma  doesn't  really  love  you  any  more  than  you 
love  her,  Papa." 

Mr.  Farley  glanced  nervously  toward  the  kitchen 
door.  His  features  suddenly  relaxed  in  the  flaccidness 
of  self-pity.  His  eyes  shone  dimly.  "I  don't  think  you 
realize  the  true  satisfaction  there  is  in  duty  well  done, 
Alice,"  he  said  shakily.  "Things  may  be — - —  This  is 
no  place  to — to  discuss  details — but  I  would  not  know- 
ingly hurt  your  mother  for  anything  on  earth." 

Alice  watched  him  narrowly  and  saw  him  loving  him- 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

self  in  his  tears.  "I  didn't  suppose  you'd  have  the 
courage  to  go  out  and  commit  murder — if  that's  what 
you  mean,"  she  said  sharply.  Her  chair  bumped 
against  the  floor  and  she  stood  up. 

Mr.  Farley  was  desperate.  "There  is  more  than  one 
kind  of  perfectly  genuine  affection."  His  voice  was 
unsteady.  He  drew  lines  and  cross  lines  on  the  table 
cloth  with  his  knife. 

Alice  laughed  and  tapped  her  foot  on  the  floor.  He 
was  hurt  by  her  laughing,  but  he  would  not  look  at 
her.  He  felt  that  he  had  allowed  his  parental  advan- 
tage to  escape  him  and  he  did  not  know  how  to  reassert 
it. 

Mrs.  Farley,  made  uneasy  by  the  murmur  of  mo- 
notonously subdued  voices,  was  afraid  to  stay  away 
any  longer.  She  came  in  very  intent  on  the  plate  of 
biscuits  she  carried,  pretending  that  she  considered 
nothing  unusual  afoot. 

"The  atmosphere  of  this  moral  cellar  has  ruined 
mine  and  Laurie's  life!"  Alice  said  angrily,  as  if  driven 
to  the  words  by  the  sight  of  her  mother's  face. 

Mr.  Farley  was  bewildered  and  angry.  Mrs.  Farley 
slipped  the  plate  of  biscuits  to  the  table  and  sank 
weakly  in  a  chair. 

Mr.  Farley  rose.  "I  won't  have  you  talk  this  way 
before  your  mother,  Alice."  In  the  depths  of  him  he 
was  profoundly  alarmed,  but  on  the  surface  he  was 
sure  of  himself  again. 

Alice  hated  herself,  but  she  stood  at  bay. 

"I  respect  your  mother,"  he  said,  "and  you  should 
do  far  more  than  respect  her." 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

"I  want  to  respect  her,  but  she  doesn't  respect  her- 
self." 

Mrs.  Farley  wept  helplessly  in  silence. 

"I  won't  have  you  insult  her,  Alice." 

"I'm  not  insulting  her.  I'm  not  the  one  who  takes 
it  for  granted  that  she  is  willing  to  go  on  forever 
and  ever  in  this  equivocal  fashion.  I've  done  her  the 
honor  of  thinking  she  might  be  glad  to  separate  from 
you  and  leave  you  free  to  live  decently." 

"I'll  go  away,  Alice !  I'll  go  away !  My  children 
don't  love  me !"  Mrs.  Farley  squinted  her  lids  together 
and,  throwing  back  her  head,  wrung  her  hands  aban- 
donedly. 

"Mother!"  Mr.  Farley  laid  a  soothing  hand  on  her 
mouse-gray  hair,  dry  and  silky  like  fur. 

She  moved  away  from  him,  shaking  her  hands.  Her 
lids  relaxed  smoothly  over  her  eyes  and  the  tears 
coursed  more  easily  through  her  worn  lashes,  and  fell 
upon  the  nose  glasses  dangling  from  the  gold  hook  on 
her  breast.  "You'll  probably  be  glad  I'm  gone.  Oh, 
my  God,  this  is  the  reward  of  my  life!" 

"Hush,  Mother!  Hush!  You're  talking  nonsense. 
Nobody  even  dreams  of  you  going  away.  Why,  it's 
preposterous." 

"Alice  says  you  want  me  to  go !"  she  moaned. 

"Alice  doesn't  know  what  she  is  talking  about.  I 
need  you  as  much  as  you  need  me." 

"But  Alice  wants  me  to  go.  My  children  don't  want 
me !"  She  opened  eyes  that  were  blank  with  the  abnor- 
mality of  her  passion.  "You  don't  want  me !" 

"Mother!" 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  123 

She  struggled  to  her  feet  and  brushed  past  him.  He 
began  to  follow  her,  but  halted  half  way  to  the  door 
with  an  air  of  helpless  indecision. 

"I'm  sorry,  Papa,'*  Alice  said  after  a  minute. 

He  could  not  answer.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  head 
and  walked  away  from  her.  For  a  moment  he  stood 
by  the  window  with  his  hands  over  his  eyes.  At  last 
he  said,  "It  is  cruel  and  useless  to  subject  your  mother 
to  a  thing  like  this — not  to  mention  that  I  don't  deserve 
it,  Alice." 

"I  know  it,  Papa,  but  I  hate  to  have  to  keep  looking 
at  the  thing.  You  and  Mamma  are  of  no  earthly  use 
to  each  other,  and  it  seems  so  stupid  for  you  to  sacri- 
fice yourself  to  a  lie  like  this." 

Mr.  Farley  hung  his  head  and  smoothed  his  broad 
brow  with  slow  trembling  fingers.  "Readjustments  are 
expensive,  Alice." 

"I  know  they  are,  but  you  can't  blame  me  for  want- 
ing to  see  things  right." 

They  were  silent.  Mr.  Farley  was  uncomfortable. 
He  did  not  know  what  was  expected  of  him.  "You, 
must  try  to  comfort  your  mother,"  he  said  at  last. 

"She'll  probably  find  some  comfort  for  herself,"  Alice 
said  bitterly. 

"Well,  I  must  go  to  the  office.  My  first  duty  to  her 
is  there."  Trying  not  to  hurry,  Mr.  Farley,  his  face 
averted,  walked  out. 

His  back,  as  he  disappeared  through  the  doorway, 
looked  stiff  and  weary.  He  seemed  weak  and  humili- 
ated like  a  big  dog  in  pain. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

At  the  noon  hour  Mrs.  Farley  came  downstairs  and 
shambled  about  the  house,  forcing  herself  on  Alice's 
sight  but  refusing  to  speak.  As  Mrs.  Farley's  fingers 
fell  into  their  wonted  tasks  the  scene  of  the  morning 
became  less  real  to  her  than  the  feel  of  cloth  and  the 
posture  of  furniture.  The  habit  of  contentment  crept 
back  upon  her.  She  wanted  nothing  of  others.  What 
should  they  want  of  her? 

Dryly  she  preserved  her  already  half -mummied  an- 
tagonism. 


On  the  glass  windows  that  stretched,  twinkling  with 
light,  across  the  broad  front  of  the  bakery  and  lunch 
room,  the  name  was  inscribed  in  a  half  moon  of  raised 
white  letters.  Behind  the  glass  were  mounds  of  iced 
cakes  and  piles  of  glossy  yellow  rolls  resting  in  wooden 
trays. 

A  pink-faced  German,  with  flat  cheek  bones,  a  stiff 
mustache,  and  narrow  good-natured  eyes,  stood  in  his 
undershirt  and  trousers  draped  with  a  soiled  apron, 
and  laid  out  a  new  supply  of  cakes  with  alternate 
chocolate  and  white  so  that  they  formed  a  geometric 
pattern.  Behind  him  on  a  rear  wall  a  large  clock 
marked  six,  the  hands,  on  the  stark  white  dial,  rigid  as 
the  limbs  of  the  crucified. 

Above  him  lights  glowed  through  globes  of  clouded 
glass.  Groups  of  wagon  drivers  and  workmen  in  gray 
jumpers  sat  at  the  tables  and,  leaning  forward  with 
chests  to  the  marble  tops,  slopped  coffee  from  their 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  125 

saucers  and  shoveled  huge  accretions  of  potatoes  and 
meat  into  their  mouths  in  the  attitudes  of  hunting  ani- 
mals. 

Outside,  in  the  dusk,  light  spread  hazily  about  the 
lamps  in  the  street.  Over  the  roofs' stars  quivered  deli- 
cately like  fiery  flowers  of  pale  green  on  a  shaken  spray. 

Old  women  crept  along  in  the  vague  brightness,  their 
backs  bent,  parcels  of  half-wrapped  bread  and  bits  of 
bloody  meat  held  preciously  to  their  shrunken  breasts 
or  clutched  in  the  knots  of  their  shawls.  A  policeman, 
leaning  against  a  post,  twirled  his  club  and  stared 
smugly  into  the  bright  vacant  faces  of  two  pearl-rouged 
girls  in  large  black  velvet  hats. 

Mrs.  Farley,  very  genteel  in  her  shabbiness,  shrank 
from  the  burly  men  and  the  rough  children  who  ran 
almost  under  her  feet.  But  she  felt  superior  to  them 
and  the  sight  of  them  steadied  her  against  life. 

For  years  she  had  bought  bread  at  the  bakery.  As 
she  went  in  the  smell  of  baked  bread  floated  against 
her  face  like  a  palpable  assurance  of  unchanging  things. 
But  the  memory  of  the  morning's  scene  crept  over  her 
like  a  coldness  which  she  seemed  to  feel  in  the  roots 
of  her  hair.  It  was  pain  to  feel  the  warmth  of  life 
flowing  away.  Her  coldness  shuddered  miserably 
against  the  heat  of  the  room. 

"Some  rolls,  please.  Fifteen  cents'  worth."  Mrs. 
Farley's  smile  was  like  the  smile  of  the  drowned,  pale 
through  water.  Her  voice  was  so  modulated  that  the 
friendly  blonde  woman  with  her  childlike  eyes  had  to 
lean  from  behind  the  counter  and  ask  again  what  was 
wanted. 


126  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Mrs.  Farley  waited  for  the  rolls  to  be  wrapped.  The 
steam  from  the  shining  coffee  urns  enveloped  her. 

Every  day  for  a  dozen  years.  The  world  motionless 
in  an  atmosphere  which  held  the  gestures  of  the  Ger- 
man baker  and  the  big  blonde  woman  with  the  smiling 
face. 

Mrs.  Farley  walked  home  slowly.  The  bag  of  bread 
dangled  in  her  cramped  hand  as  she  faced  the  chill 
wind  blowing  against  her  from  the  direction  of  her 
home — chill  wind  of  strangeness. 

Mr.  Farley  and  Alice  were  in  the  house.  Alice 
minded  the  children.  Mr.  Farley  awaited  his  dinner. 

To  Mrs.  Farley  they  were  wild  fish  out  of  the  sea 
caught  in  her  glass.  They  were  in  the  house  making 
confident  motions  there  as  fish  swim  at  their  ease  in  an 
aquarium.  They  were  terrible  as  the  sea  in  a  looking- 
glass. 

Mrs.  Farley  mounted  the  front  steps.  Alice  and  Mr. 
Farley  were  a  pain  she  would  not  admit.  She  shut 
them  out.  It  should  be  night,  and  she  would  remain 
in  the  night  where  they  meant  nothing. 

As  she  walked  through  the  hall  to  the  kitchen  she 
felt  strong  again  with  the  monotony  of  life.  Beds, 
chairs,  tables,  walls  rose  strong  about  her.  She  made 
herself  still  like  the  walls. 


Mrs.  Farley  pushed  the  bedroom  door  back.     She 
did  not  speak. 

Alice  could  barely  distinguish  the  form  which  agi- 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  127 

tated  the  darkness  with  its  quiet.  The  two  women  felt 
for  each  other  through  the  gloom.  They  were  like 
water  insects  fumbling  with  antennae. 

"Mamma!  Is  that  you?"  Alice  sat  up  straight  in 
bed, 

Mrs.  Farley,  her  heart  beating  unevenly,  felt  the 
harsh  stiffening  of  Alice's  outline  against  the  white  blot 
of  the  sheet. 

Mrs.  Farley  tried  to  speak.  She  felt  as  though  the 
darkness  were  binding  her  lips  with  gray  transparent 
folds  of  shadow  tough  as  silk.  "Yes." 

"What's  the  matter?"  Alice  threw  the  sheet  back 
and  stood  up  on  the  floor.  Half  seen,  she  upreared 
enormously  like  a  wraith. 

"Your  father  isn't  home  yet,"  Mrs.  Farley  said. 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"I  know  where  he  is."  Mrs.  Farley's  voice  sounded 
cracked. 

"Then  you  ought  not  to  worry." 

"He's  with  that  woman."  Mrs.  Farley's  words 
clacked  like  castanets  in  trembling  hands;  then  fell 
soundless. 

Alice  pitied  her  mother  and  grew  hard.  "Well,  you 
knew  he  was  going  to  see  her." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  Mrs.  Farley  said,  "I 
know  I  can't  expect  any  sympathy  from  you.  My  own 
child  connives  with  her  father  to  get  rid  of  me." 

"I'm  sorry  things  are  like  this,  Mamma,  but  I  won't 
be  blamed  for  them.  If  I  were  you  I  wouldn't  allow 
myself  to  be  placed  in  this  kind  of  a  position." 

"Oh,  I  know  you!     I  know  you!"     Mrs.  Farley's 


128  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

voice  broke  as  with  age  and  vindictiveness.  She  turned 
and  went  out,  stumbling  over  the  edge  of  the  matting 
and  catching  the  door  lintel  as  she  passed  into  the 
light. 

Alice  stood  quietly  a  moment  resisting  the  contagion 
of  her  mother's  panic.  Then,  conquering  stubborn- 
ness, she  followed. 

Mrs.  Farley  was  in  the  back  of  the  hall  leaning 
against  the  stair  rail.  She  was  in  her  nightdress  that 
fell,  like  hanging  water,  white  through  the  gloom.  She 
was  making  a  slow  way  toward  the  kitchen. 

"What  are  you  trying  to  do,  Mamma?"  Alice  called. 
Her  body,  uncorseted,  was  heavy.  She  walked  quickly 
after  her  mother.  She  knew  what  her  mother  was 
trying  to  do. 

Mrs.  Farley  dallied  a  little,  but  she  would  not  an- 
swer. Her  hands  were  hid,  carrying  something. 

Alice  came  up  behind.  She  caught  her  mother 
quickly  from  the  back.  "Give  me  that  pistol,  do  you 
hear  me!" 

"No,  no!  I  won't!"  The  scrawny  body  bent  for- 
ward and  doubled  itself  against  Alice's  reaching  hand. 

"Give  it  here."  Alice  was  quiet  and  sure  with  ex- 
citement. Her  big  breast  heaved  under  her  loose  night- 
gown. Her  hair  was  tumbled  about  and  her  coarse 
face  was  red  with  effort. 

"Let  me!  Then  you  and  your  father  can  do  what 
you  please !" 

"Rubbish.  Let  it  go,  I  say."  Alice's  fingers  were 
on  the  gun.  Its  hardness  and  coldness  reassured  her 
of  she  knew  not  what. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  129 

She  wanted  to  hurt  me,  Alice  thought.  What  other 
reason  did  she  have  for  coming  to  me  about  it? 

"Oh,  oh !    You  hurt  my  wrist !" 

Alice  clutched  her  mother's  fingers  and  was  cruel 
to  them.  The  strong  fingers  pressed  and  twisted,  still 
stronger.  "Give  me  that  gun!" 

It  dropped  with  a  dull  clatter  on  the  bare  floor. 

Mrs.  Farley's  power  over  others  was  her  power  to 
hurt  herself.  Now  it  was  gone.  She  was  feeble. 

"You  try  to  get  your  father  to  leave  me.  You 
want  to  see  me  left  here  without  anything  and  you  won't 
let  me  kill  myself,"  she  hiccoughed,  beginning  to  cry. 

The  gaslight  on  the  wall  was  turned  low.  Alice 
reached  for  the  screw  and  sent  the  flame  up  so  that  a 
yellow  flood  swept  the  shadows  away. 

Mrs.  Farley's  tear-inflamed  eyes  squinted  at  the 
light.  She  huddled  against  the  wall.  Her  gray  hair, 
undone,  clung  to  her  bare  neck  above  her  open  night- 
dress. Her  eyes,  lifted  to  Alice,  were  opaque  with 
misery. 

Below  her  nightdress  her  feet  were  bare.  Her  toes 
with  bulbous  joints  rested  flaccid  on  the  scrap  of  brown 
carpet  at  the  head  of  the  stair.  She  turned  away  from 
Alice  and  began  to  fumble  blindly  for  the  rail. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

Mrs.  Farley  slid  herself  feebly  along  the  rail  and 
down  the  first  step.  "I  don't  know!  I  don't  know!" 
she  wailed. 

"Stop  acting  like  that,  Mamma.  You  know  you 
can  stand  up." 


130  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

"I  can't!  I  can't!  I  don't  care  what  becomes  of 
me!" 

Alice  caught  her  mother  in  a  grasp  of  repugnance 
and  pulled  her  back.  "You've  got  to  brace  up.  You 
don't  care  what  I  think  of  you  or  what  you  do  to  me, 
but  you  have  to  have  a  little  pride  and  a  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility toward  Bobby  and  May.  You  can't  let 
them  see  a  thing  like  this.  Is  Laurence  home  yet?" 

"No,  he's  not  home.  Why  should  I  feel  responsible 
for  Bobby  and  May?  You  think  I'm  not  fit  for  them. 
You  want  to  take  them  away  from  me." 

"I'm  not  going  to  pamper  you  by  arguing  with  you. 
If  I  seriously  thought  that  you  wanted  to  end  your 
life  I  should  consider  that  interference  was  none  of 
my  business,  but " 

"And  yet  you  expect  me  to  live!  None  of  your 
business!  Oh,  my  God!" 

"But  as  you  have  no  real  intention  of  killing  your- 
self you  have  no  right  to  subject  me  to  a  scene  like  this. 
I  want  a  little  peace." 

"A  little  peace !  Oh,  my  God,  a  little  peace !"  Mrs. 
Farley  shut  her  eyes  and  let  her  head  fall  backward 
and  forward  limply  as  though  there  were  no  vertebrae 
in  her  neck. 

Alice  shook  her.    "Stop  it,  Mamma." 

Mrs.  Farley  rocked  herself  like  a  drunken  woman. 
Finally,  her  eyes  yet  closed,  she  shuddered  and  was 
still. 

"Are  you  calm  now?" 

"Yes.     I'm  calm.     Whatever  I  do  makes  no  differ- 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  131 

ence  to  you.  Nothing  I  do  affects  you.  You're  hard 
as  nails." 

"We  won't  talk  about  that.  You  can  affect  me, 
but  because  that  is  just  what  you  want  to  do  I'm  not 
going  to  let  you." 

"I  want  to  do  !    She  says  I  want  to  do !" 

"I  have  to  talk  you  into  a  state  of  common  sense." 

Still  Mrs.  Farley's  head  nodded  as  if  with  sleep  and 
her  eyes  remained  shut.  "Common  sense.  Yes,  com- 
mon sense,"  she  repeated  like  a  dream. 

"Echoing  me  in  that  stupid  way  won't  keep  me  from 
going  on." 

"Stupid  ?  She  calls  it  a  stupid  way.  My  God !  My 
God!  What  agony!"  Mrs.  Farley  almost  shrieked 
out  "agony."  Her  knotted  hands  clutched  her  flat 
breasts  as  if  with  hunger.  Her  voice  was  dully  intense. 
Her  wrinkled  lids  twitched. 

Why  does  she  twitch  her  face? 

Alice's  lips  curled  almost  like  a  snarl.  "You'll  find 
me  giving  away  and  raving  too  if  you  don't  watch  out, 
Mamma.  I  can't  stand  too  much  of  this." 

Mrs.  Farley  opened  her  eyes  slowly,  but  she  kept 
her  gaze  vague  against  the  solid  antagonism  of  Alice's 
eyes.  "I'm  going  back  to  my  room  now.  I  can't  sleep, 
but  I  won't  burden  you  any  longer  with  the  sight  of 
me.  You  can  tell  your  father  I'm  not  going  to  trouble 
him  any  more.  He  can  start  his  proceedings  for  di- 
vorce. I  don't  know  what  the  Prices  will  say — what 
they  will  think.  They  probably  imagined  just  as  I 
did  that  the  whole  thing  was  over  twelve  years  ago  when 
I  went  through  so  much  humiliation  to  save  your  father. 


132  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

It  took  the  diabolical  vileness  of  my  own  daughter  to 
draw  her  father  and  this  woman  together  again  after 
we  had  a  happy  home  and  were  all  at  peace." 

"I  didn't  have  a  happy  home.  Papa  hasn't  a  happy 
home." 

"I  know  I'm  vile.  Guilty  of  all  manner  of  vileness. 
It  was  vile  of  me  to  slave  and  work  as  I've  done  and 
take  all  of  the  responsibility  off  Laurence's  hands  and 
slave  for  Winnie  and  the  children." 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  Winnie  and  the  children." 

"I  don't  know  what  charge  your  father  can  bring. 
Then  as  soon  as  he  gets  it  he  can  rush  off  and  marry 
that  thing.  To  judge  by  the  way  she  was  going  when 
I  saw  her  she  must  be  middle-aged  and  fat  by  now,  but 
your  father  won't  mind  so  long  as  she's  not  me.  Then 
my  daughter  will  be  freed  of  me.  Winnie  and  Laurence 
can  get  somebody  else  to  fetch  and  carry  and  clean 
up  for  their  children.  As  you  say,  I  have  no  right 
here.  I  ought  not  to  be  alive.  But  you  can  tell  your 
father  how  it  is  and  he'll  find  a  way  to  get  rid  of  me." 

Alice  was  still  like  a  mountain.  "That's  all  right, 
Mamma.  I'll  tell  Papa  what  you  say — that  you  are 
willing  for  him  to  arrange  for  a  divorce.  Is  that  all 
right?" 

"That's  it !  That's  it !  Let  him  arrange  it  anyway 
he  will  and  don't  have  too  much  consideration  for  my 
feelings.  Let  him  tell  the  judge  that  I've  worn  out  my 
good  looks  so  I  don't  attract  him  any  longer." 

Alice  had  heard  the  door  slam  below  stairs.  She 
stared  at  her  mother's  unconscious  face  and  said  noth- 
ing. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Mrs.  Farley,  dragging  her  feet  exaggeratedly,  moved 
off  into  her  bedroom. 

Then  Alice  pattered  quickly  down  the  stairs  and  met 
her  father  in  the  hall.  He  had  heard  voices  and  looked 
alarmed. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  he  asked,  seeing  her  face 
angry  and  elated,  and  that  she  wore  only  her  night- 
gown. 

"Yes.     Come  into  the  living-room,"  Alice  said. 

They  walked  in.  Mr.  Farley  was  a  long  time  finding 
the  light.  He  felt  choked  by  the  guilty  beating  of  his 
heart.  When  he  had  made  the  room  bright  he  turned 
to  Alice  almost  in  fear.  She  looked  so  ugly,  flushed, 
with  her  hair  in  confusion,  and  her  angry  eyes. 

"I've  been  talking  to  Mamma,".  Alice  said  breath- 
lessly. 

Mr.  Farley's  face  was  drawn.  He  blinked  at  the 
light,  gaining  time.  "I  asked  you  not  to  talk  to  your 
mother,"  he  said  uncomfortably. 

"I  know  you  did,  but  she  talked  to  me  and  I  couldn't 
keep  my  mouth  shut.  She  began  by  saying  she  knew 
where  you  had  gone.  She  says  she's  willing  to  agree 
to  a  divorce." 

Mr.  Farley  did  not  know  what  to  say.  The  situa- 
tion had  been  forced  upon  him  unaware  and  he  did 
not  know  what  to  do  with  it.  "This  is  nonsense,  Alice. 
Your  mother  knows  that."  He  held  his  brow  with  his 
hand. 

"Why  is  it  nonsense?  You've  given  up  most  of  your 
life  to  her,  but  I  don't  see  why  you  should  keep  on 
doing  it!" 


134«  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Mr.  Farley  could  not  understand  what  was  happen- 
ing, nor  how  it  was  he  felt  borne  forward  on  an  invisible 
current  that  flowed  from  Alice.  He  walked  up  and 
down  the  room.  "You  mustn't  start  these  things,  Alice." 

Alice  watched  him  contemptuously.  "Don't  blame 
me  for  the  nightmare  of  lies  and  hypocrisy  that  exists 
between  you  and  Mamma." 

Mr.  Farley  kept  rubbing  his  head.  Then  he  walked 
stealthily  to  the  hall  door  and  closed  it.  His  eyes,  as 
he  lifted  them  to  Alice's  face,  had  the  blind  awareness 
,of  a  sheep's.  He  seemed  to  know  all  and  to  perceive 
nothing.  "You  mustn't  misunderstand  me,  Alice.  It 
is  true  that  a  satisfying  companionship  cannot  exist 
between  me  and  your  mother,  but  she  and  I  have  made 
compromises  for  each  other  that  have  made  it  possible 
for  us  to  live,  and  I  can't  think  lightly  of  hurting  her.'* 

They  were  silent.  Mr.  Farley  shaded  his  eyes  with 
an  unsteady  hand. 

"You  did  go  to  see  Mrs.  Wilson  tonight,  didn't 
you?"  Alice  aske'd  after  a  minute. 

"Yes.  She  is  passing  through  town.  I  hadn't  seen 
her  for  three  years." 

"My  God !    You  don't  need  to  apologize  for  it !" 

They  were  quiet  again. 

"So  you  don't  want  to  accept  anything  from  Mamma 
even  if  she  is  willing  to  give?" 

"You  don't  understand,  Alice.  That  very  fact  makes 
me  even  more  responsible  for  my  own  resolutions."  His 
voice  shook. 

"Look  here,  Papa,  I  always  imagined  you  had  sac- 
rificed yourself  outright  to  Mamma's  weakness  and  de- 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  135 

pendency,  and  now  when  you  have  a  chance  to  get  away 
from  her  and  live  with  somebody  who  is  younger  whom 
you  seem  to  care  for,  you  actually  seem  to  be  dodging 
the  issue  just  as  though  you  were  contented  with  your 
situation." 

"You  must  remember  that  Mrs!  Wilson  must  be  con- 
sidered— that  what  I  selfishly  want "  He  stopped. 

Patiently  through  all  these  years  he  had  strained  for- 
ward like  an  animal  pulling  a  loaded  cart  and,  now 
the  cart  was  being  taken  from  him,  he  was  disconcerted 
to  find  himself  still  straining  forward  pulling  at  noth- 
ingness. Bewildered,  he  tried  to  save  his  ideal  of  him- 
self. "You  must  remember  we  have  never  really  con- 
sidered a  divorce  possible." 

"Well,  Papa,  of  course  I  can't  decide  your  life  for 
you.  If  you  don't  feel  that  you  owe  it  to  your 
son "  She  turned  resolutely. 

He  felt  her  scorn.  He  hated  her,  but  he  could  not 
bear  to  have  her  go.  He  covered  his  face. 

She  walked  out. 

He  could  hear  her  run  up  the  stairs,  her  bare  feet 
making  a  soft  sound.  He  wanted  to  call  her  back,  but 
he  did  not  know  what  to  say.  It  was  necessary  to  him 
to  think  well  of  himself. 


Mrs.  Farley  went  about  her  housework  with  renewed 
determination.  She  would  speak  to  no  one  but  Lau- 
rence. At  the  table  she  served  them  all,  but  if  there 
was  any  general  talk  she  did  not  hear  it. 


186  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Mr.  Farley  grew  into  the  habit  of  giving  her  furtive 
looks.  He  forgot  to  eat.  He  talked  mostly  to  Bobby 
and  May. 

The  weather  was  quite  mild,  but  Mrs.  Farley  took 
to  wearing  an  old  red  cashmere  shawl  and  pulling  it 
tight  about  her  throat.  When  her  husband  or  her 
daughter  sought  her  averted  gaze  she  wrapped  herself 
tighter  and  shivered  ostentatiously. 

Bobby  was  too  young  to  note  changes  which  did  not 
directly  affect  his  interest,  but  May,  with  her  shining 
eyes  of  a  little  stuffed  goat,  ruminated  in  her  own  way 
on  what  was  making  her  grandmother  eccentric.  The 
little  girl's  pale  lips  parted  loosely  in  wonder,  as,  ignor- 
ing her  food,  she  watched  her  grandmother's  oblivious 
face  bent  over  the  coffee. 

Mrs.  Farley  was  conscious  of  this  all-absorbing  gaze 
which  had  in  it  neither  approval  nor  condemnation. 
She  felt  at  a  disadvantage  before  the  child,  and,  when 
May  asked  for  anything,  found  it  difficult  not  to  push 
her  away  with  expressions  of  violence. 

Laurence  saw  that  something  was  wrong  again  be- 
tween his  parents.  Alice  with  her  damned  interfer- 
ence, he  told  himself. 

When  his  mother  spoke  to  him  his  voice  was  gentle. 
But  he  could  not  endure  other  people's  pain.  He  kept 
away  from  her  as  much  as  possible. 

In  this  web  of  silence  between  her  father  and  mother 
Alice  felt  herself  caught  by  threads  of  iron.  She  could 
not  move. 

One  morning  when  she  and  her  mother  were  alone 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  137 

Alice  said,  "I  told  Papa  that  you  were  willing  for  him 
to  arrange  a  divorce." 

Mrs.  Farley's  face,  in  its  deliberated  vagueness, 
quivered  like  a  gray  jelly,  but  she  kept  her  eyes  away 
and  her  body  did  not  quicken  to  more  expressive  life. 

"Yes.  I  supposed  you  did.  I  suppose  by  now  the 
two  of  you  have  fixed  it  up." 

"You'll  have  to  talk  sensibly  about  it  or  he  can't 
do  it." 

Mrs.  Farley  gave  Alice  one  weak  terrible  look. 

Alice  could  not  bear  the  look.  To  get  away  from  it 
and  from  a  desire  to  do  something  violent  she  walked 
into  the  living-room. 


The  children  were  playing  in  the  back  yard  when 
Bobby  fell  down  and  hurt  himself.  May  sat  flat  on 
the  grass  before  the  sandpile,  but  when  she  saw  that 
Bobby  was  hurt  she  struggled  to  her  feet  on  her  thin 
legs  like  a  weak  young  colt,  and  went  to  help  him. 

"You're  full  of  dirt."  She  squatted  before  him 
brushing  his  clothes,  her  stiff  petticoats  tilted  up  in 
front,  her  buttocks,  in  small  soiled  drawers,  swinging 
close  to  the  earth. 

Just  then  Aunt  Alice  came  out  of  the  kitchen  door 
and  stood  on  the  step.  In  the  sunshine  her  bare  hair 
showed  a  burnt  brown.  The  wind  whipped  her  heavy 
skirts  against  her  stout  thighs.  She  saw  Bobby  crying 
with  his  mouth  open  and  his  eyes  shut,  trying  to  squeeze 
the  tears  from  between  his  lids. 


138  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

"Hush  that,  Bobby!  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  your- 
self?" 

Bobby  cried  louder.  When  she  came  down  the  path 
her  undeviating  approach  made  him  mad  with  passion. 
"Dow  Vay!"  he  shouted.  When  Aunt  Alice  reached 
him  he  pounded  against  her  stomach  with  his  fists. 

She  clasped  his  plump  wrists  folded  in  fat  and  held 
them  while  he  struggled  until  the  dirt  and  sweat  with 
which  they  were  grimed  rolled  up  under  her  fingers. 
At  this  moment  she  loved  him  more  intensely  because 
she  could  hurt  him. 

"Dow  'way!"  he  kept  shouting.  His  hair  was 
tumbled  about  his  face.  He  was  red  with  passion. 
When  he  had  freed  himself  he  ran  toward  the  house. 
"I  hate  Aunt  Alice!  I  hate  Aunt  Alice!  I  wants  my 
dranma !"  he  called  back. 

With  sudden  confidence,  May  sidled  toward  her  aunt. 
"We've  been  makin*  mud  pies  and  coverin*  'em  with  sand 
like  icin',"  she  said. 

Alice  looked  down.  Pale.  May's  hair  shining  like  a 
dead  sun.  Alice  all  at  once  hated  May's  hair  because 
it  was  pale  and  bright.  "It's  too  chilly  to  make  mud 
pies.  For  Heaven's  sake  don't  put  your  dirty  hands  on 
me,  May!"  With  a  violent  push  Alice  put  the  little 
girl  aside  and  walked  briskly  up  the  path. 

A  few  surprised  tears  trickled  from  the  resigned 
and  shining  misery  of  May's  eyes.  She  watched  her 
aunt  move  toward  the  house. 

Conscious  of  May's  pale  hair  floating  after  her  in 
unsubstantial  brightness,  Alice  rushed  up  the  stairs  to 
her  room.  She  pulled  down  the  shades,  longing  for 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  139 

the  heaviness  of  dark.  The  room  in  shadow  was  a  pool 
on  which  Alice's  unhappiness,  dreamy  and  intermittent, 
floated  like  a  swamp  light. 

Outside  the  softness  of  the  room,  where  solitude 
allowed  her  to  relax,  the  soul  of  her  family  surrounded 
her,  rearing  its  ramparts  of  towers  beaten  in  the  iron 
of  years. 

Where  will  my  light  go  to  ?  Ugly  old  maid.  Eman- 
cipation of  women.  Why  did  I  not  tell  him  that  I  loved 
him? 

Darkness  floated  from  her  words. 


The  morning  was  gray.  The  windows  along  the 
street  were  fathomlessly  blank.  Across  the  asphalt  wet 
wheel  tracks  stretched  glistening  and  sinuous  like  black 
rubber  snakes. 

Mr.  Farley  stepped  into  the  street  and  closed  the 
front  door  stealthily  behind  him.  Too  agitated  to  en- 
dure breakfast  with  his  family,  he  remembered  the 
cheap  restaurant  around  the  corner,  a  place  lined  with 
grotesque  mirrors  and  white  and  narrow  like  the  cor- 
ridor of  a  ship. 

When  he  went  in  he  found  the  floor,  covered  with 
brick-colored  linoleum,  smeared  and  darkened  with 
grease,  and  the  cloth  on  the  table  where  he  seated 
himself  was  stained  with  pink-brown  splashes  of  wine. 
The  waiter  came  up,  a  soft  heavy  man  whose  feet 
pressed  the  floor  as  soundlessly  as  those  of  a  panther. 
Mr.  Farley  took  the  list  of  dishes  from  the  waiter's 


140  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

hand,  fat  like  the  hand  of  a  corpse.  The  waiter's  sad 
little  eyes  were  set  in  a  broad  white  face  stubbled  with 
bluish  beard.  When  he  moved  away  he  was  like  a  ghost. 
His  large  hips  swayed,  woman-wise.  His  soiled  apron 
floated  over  a  generous  belly  as  profound  as  sleep. 

Flies  buzzed  against  the  walls  and  fell  back  upon  the 
half-washed  table  coverings  and  the  cracked  cruets 
opaque  from  many  fillings. 

Mr.  Farley  stirred  gray  crystals  of  sugar  into  the 
gold-edged  blackness  of  his  coffee,  then  clouded  it  with 
the  pale  blue-auraed  milk  that  brimmed  the  squat  white 
pitcher. 

He  tried  to  think  things  out,  but  he  had  nurtured 
his  self-esteem  on  the  verity  of  abnegation  and  it  was 
hard  for  him  to  accept  as  a  blessing  the  thing  which 
it  had  given  him  so  much  comfort  to  do  without. 

Safe  in  the  conviction  that  there  would  be  no  end 
to  his  sacrifice,  he  had  allowed  full  abandon  to  his 
mystical  and  repressed  nature.  Helen  Wilson  had  be- 
come glorified  and  beyond  attainment.  He  was  in 
terror  of  seeing  her  too  clearly.  When  her  neat  figure, 
a  little  stout,  emerged  distinctly  from  the  chaos  of  his 
reflections,  he  deliberately  let  down  a  curtain  of  con- 
fusion across  the  mirror  of  his  consciousness. 


After  dinner  Mr.  Farley  went  into  the  living-room 
and  seated  himself  in  an  armchair.  He  had  scarcely 
exchanged  a  word  with  any  one  during  the  meal.  He 
bent  his  head  in  his  hands.  The  light  from  the  shaded 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  141 

lamp  glistened  obliquely  along  the  thin  parting  of  his 
hair  and  his  baldish  scalp. 

Mrs.  Farley  made  pretexts  to  come  near  him.  In 
the  afternoon  she  had  been  mending  a  nightdress  of 
May's  and  left  it  on  top  of  the  magazine  rack,  and  now 
she  came  to  get  it. 

She  was  a  long  time  putting  her  sewing  things  to- 
gether. Mr.  Farley  saw  her,  but  he  did  not  stir. 

Alice  had  followed  her  mother  into  the  room  and 
halted  abruptly  behind  her. 

Mrs.  Farley  did  not  see  Alice.  Mr.  Farley  started 
a  little,  glanced  at  his  daughter,  and  looked  away  again. 

Alice,  watching  the  two  people,  felt  the  atmosphere 
of  the  room  weighted  with  inertias.  These  people  forced 
her  back  into  herself,  into  her  own  dumbness.  She 
wanted  to  shatter  her  silence  with  their  cries. 

"Turn  around  here  and  look  at  Papa,  Mamma," 
Alice  said  suddenly. 

Mrs.  Farley  would  not  look.  "Your  father  knows 
what  I  think,"  she  said  after  a  minute.  She  glanced 
at  Alice. 

Mrs.  Farley  wore  her  pince-nez  and  the  irridescence 
of  glass  added  remoteness  to  her  hostile  uneasy  eyes. 
The  gold  clasp  drawing  the  flesh  together  on  her  nose 
gave  a  twist  of  severity  to  her  dry  obscure  face.  Her 
hate  seemed  to  flow  uncertainly  through  the  crystals 
and  flash  defiance  in  the  gold  center.  The  little  gold 
clasp  of  the  pince-nez  was  like  the  claw  of  impotence 
buried  in  its  own  flesh. 

Alice  tapped  the  floor  with  her  foot.  "Do  you  know 
what  Mamma  thinks,  Papa?  I'm  sure  I  don't." 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Mr.  Farley  stared  under  his  fingers  at  the  floor  where 
the  dim  pattern  of  the  carpet  grew  more  dim.  "I  know 
what  you  have  told  me." 

"I  can't  stand  the  atmosphere  here.  If  you  and  she 
don't  find  some  way  to  talk  it  out  you'll  drive  Laurence 
and  me  insane." 

Mr.  Farley  sighed  deeply.  "I'm  ready  and  willing 
to  discuss  anything.  I  have  felt  lately  that  I  have 
become  an  intruder  in  your  mother's  eyes,  but  I  hardly 
know  what  has  happened,  Alice." 

Mrs.  Farley  glanced  at  the  bright  baldish  spot  in 
her  husband's  scalp.  It  seemed  to  her  the  center  of  the 
unreality  in  which  she  had  existed  of  late,  and  she 
was  as  if  held  together  by  the  grip  of  the  glasses  on 
her  nose,  the  one  tense  and  sure  sensation  which  con- 
tradicted her  feeling  of  dispersion.  Then  she  looked 
at  Alice. 

"I  can't  leave  May  and  Bobby  upstairs  alone  even 
to  talk  things  over."  She  pulled  the  red  shawl  about 
her  neck  and  started  for  the  door.  "It  seems  to  me 
you  and  your  father  have  settled  my  life  for  me,  any- 
way," she  called  back. 

Mr.  Farley  did  not  move  for  a  moment  after  her 
exit.  Then  he  stood  up,  and,  making  a  hopeless  gesture 
with  his  hands,  walked  out  in  silence,  shaking  his  head. 

His  thoughts  were  eddying  in  a  current  which  sucked 
down  his  self-esteem.  He  wanted  to  give  back  her  hap- 
piness to  his  wife  that  it  might  make  him  beautiful  in 
his  own  eyes.  He  wanted  the  cool  peace  of  purchased 
misery. 

Alice,  left  alone,  was  hot  and  futile. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  143 

I  shall  go  out  of  me  in  dark  blood. 

She  walked  to  the  window.  The  street  was  empty. 
Over  the  blue-bright  housetops,  the  quiet  sky  and  the 
cold  moon.  She  leaned  her  forehead  against  the  glass 
and  looked  into  the  street. 

She  felt  suddenly  tired,  endless,  capable  of  giving 
birth  to  endless  selves.  She  was  tired.  She  could  not 
die.  She  was  like  a  mother  bearing  herself  forever 
like  endless  children. 


PART  in 

HERE  was  a  blacksmith's  forge  down  the  road  by 
A  the  farmhouse  where  Winnie  and  her  mother  were 
staying.  In  the  morning  in  the  silence  the  first  sound 
Winnie  heard  was  the  chiming  of  the  hammer  like  a 
bell. 

There  were  maple  trees  against  her  window.  The 
leaves  were  yellowing.  When  the  sun  shone  through 
them  they  were  a  silken  veil  of  light. 

The  days  were  long  and  bright.  The  farmer's  wife 
was  busy  with  household  tasks  and  Winnie  and  her 
mother  spent  uninterrupted  hours  on  the  long  narrow 
veranda  when  Mrs.  Price  embroidered,  or  read  a  novel 
while  Winnie  listened. 

Winnie  was  oppressed  by  the  silence.  She  had  not 
cared  at  first  to  believe  that  she  would  have  a  child, 
but  the  dark  thought  ran  along  after  her  like  a  dog 
that  will  not  be  beaten  off.  She  knew  it  was  there  in 
her  mind,  but  she  would  not  recognize  it. 

Dr.  Beach  came  into  the  country  to  visit  her.  He 
spoke  of  the  care  she  must  give  to  her  health  and  he 
told  her  that  if  she  continued  to  improve  over  a  long 
time  she  might  be  able  to  evade  the  operation. 

It  was  only  when  he  gave  her  hope  that  despair 
forced  her  to  realize  herself.  She  gazed  at  him  in  help- 

144 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  145 

less  terror.  When  he  turned  to  speak  to  her  mother, 
Winnie  left  the  room,  and  while  he  remained  she  did 
not  come  back. 

After  the  doctor  had  gone  Mrs.  Price  entered  the 
old-fashioned  farm  bedroom  and  found  Winnie  lying 
on  her  face. 

"Winnie !  My  darling !  You  are  sobbing  your  heart 
out!"  Mrs.  Price's  black-clothed  body  trembled  and 
her  precise  voice  shook.  She  laid  her  blue-veined  hand 
on  Winnie's  wrist. 

But  Winnie  could  not  tell.  She  glanced  up,  her  little 
face  dim  with  despair. 

"Winnie!  Are  you  in  pain?  Shall  I  call  the  doctor 
again?  Winnie,  my  darling!  Dear  child,  answer  me! 
You  must  not  act  like  this !" 

But  Winnie  buried  her  head  m  pillows  and  would 
not  reply.  She  had  wept  out  all  she  wanted  to  say. 
She  was  sodden.  She  was  still.  There  was  nothing 
left  in  her  but  silence. 

Mrs.  Price,  tears  of  anxiety  in  her  eyes,  gripped 
Winnie's  wrists  and  held  them  tight.  They  were  still 
together.  The  wooden  clock  ticked  on  the  low  mantel. 
Then  Mrs.  Price  said,  "Winnie,  if  you  cannot  manage 
to  tell  me  what  is  the  matter  I  shall  telegraph  your 
father." 

Crushed  against  Mrs.  Price's  finality,  Winnie  strug- 
gled to  free  herself.  "I  want  to  die!  Oh,  I  want  to 
die !"  she  said,  and  every  time  she  said  "die,"  something 
in  her  shouted  against  the  dumbness  of  her  throat,  life, 
life !  The  shriek  was  against  Laurence  and  against  the 
living  child  that  had  come  to  consume  her. 


146  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Mrs.  Price  shivered  as  with  cold,  but  she  tried  to 
be  calm.  "Winnie,"  speaking  very  low,  "you  must  use 
some  self-control.  Something  terrible  has  happened. 
You  have  heard  something  from  home  which  you  have 
not  told  me.  I  am  your  mother.  I  love  you  better  than 
anything  in  the  world,  and  you  have  no  right  to  keep 
me  in  ignorance  of  anything  that  is  troubling  you." 
Her  lips  were  bluish  and  her  upper  lip  was  wet  with 
sweat.  The  skin  on  her  hands  was  withered  like  white 
crepe  and  the  veins  swelled  in  her  trembling  wrists. 

The  clock  ticked.  Winnie  murmured  something  in 
the  pillow.  Mrs.  Price  waited. 

Outside  the  open  window  the  evening  air  congealed 
in  heaviness.  It  hung  cold  and  bitter  over  the  moist 
grass.  The  smell  of  weeds  floated  into  the  room. 

Mrs.  Price  looked  out  and  saw  that  each  stalk  of 
golden  rod  in  the  meadow  opposite  was  separately 
still.  The  sky  was  blue  stone.  Only  the  pine  trees 
seemed  warm  against  the  vacuous  shining  of  twilight. 
For  night  was  terrible,  descending  in  brightness.  It 
was  a  mirror  in  the  pale  still  sky.  It  was  nothing. 

Slowly  the  darkness  grew  up  from  the  earth,  and,  as 
the  trees  darkened,  the  earth  began  to  grow  into  being. 

Winnie  was  glad  of  the  darkness.  When  the  room 
grew  dark  she  did  not  hold  the  child  separately  in 
her  body.  It  lay  with  her  in  the  body  of  the  dark 
and  she  was  freed  of  it. 

"Mamma!"  She  sat  up,  her  body  a  harsh  gray 
stroke  of  determination  against  the  white  inert  pillow. 

"Yes,  my  dear."  Mrs.  Price  smoothed  her  child's 
brow.  "Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  are  quieter,  Winnie." 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  147 

Out  of  the  silence  from  which  the  sun  had  passed 
the  moon  suddenly  unrolled,  huge  and  white  and  dry 
as  a  dead  flower.  A  dragon-fly  darting  across  the 
window  and  the  dry  white  face  of  the  moon,  so  gor- 
geously lifeless,  was  a  gold  thorn  sinking  into  the  quiet 
flesh  of  shadow. 

Voices  sounded  from  the  road.  The  lowest  branches 
of  the  trees  yet  trembled  with  light.  Then  the  world 
died  away  in  the  chirping  of  insects  and  the  bleat  of 
frogs. 

"I  will  light  a  lamp,  darling."  Mrs.  Price  went  over 
to  a  table.  She  could  barely  be  seen.  The  match 
spurted  suddenly  into  flame,  and  she  was  plain  again. 

When  the  lamp  was  lit  the  night  outside  went 
black  and  the  moon,  now  vast  and  green  and  strange, 
rushed  gorgeously  against  the  lifted  window  pane. 

Lamplight  sucked  at  the  shadows  but  could  not  draw 
them  utterly  to  itself  so  that  the  corners  of  the  big 
room  remained  vague  and  only  here  and  there  some 
object  gave  out  a  grudging  glint. 

Mrs.  Price  was  stiff  but  shaken  and  gentle.  "Now, 
Winnie,  darling,  tell  me  what  has  made  you  like  this." 
She  came  to  the  bed  and  looked  down. 

Winnie  threw  back  her  head  and,  with  closed  eyes, 
plucked  at  the  bedclothes.  "I  can't  tell  you." 

"Are  you  unhappy?  Has  something  happened  be- 
tween you  and  your  husband,  my  child?  You  must 
be  fair  to  me,  Winnie." 

Winnie  rocked  herself.  "Oh,  I  can't  tell.  What 
would  be  the  use?  I  can't  tell." 

"What  am  I  to  do,  Winnie?" 


14*8  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Still  Winnie  rocked  herself.  "Oh,  I  would  rather 
be  dead !"  she  said. 

"Don't  say  that,  Winnie!  We  mustn't  think  such 
thoughts.  Aren't  we  doing  everything  on  earth  to 
make  you  live?  Your  father  and  I  want  to  do  every- 
thing on  earth  to  make  life  better  and  surer  and 
sweeter  for  you  and  your  babies." 

Winnie  began  to  throw  herself  about  in  the  bed  again. 
"Oh,  I'd  rather  be  dead  than  to  be  sick  and  have 
another  baby.  I  know  I'm  going  to  die." 

"Have  another  baby."  Mrs.  Price  did  not  receive 
the  words.  They  were  strange.  They  remained  out- 
side her. 

Then,  all  at  once,  without  her  being  aware  of  the 
moment,  their  meaning  entered  into  her  and  burnt  her 
with  terror. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Winnie?  This  isn't  possible." 
Mrs.  Price  seated  herself  shakily  on  the  bed  and  took 

Winnie's  struggling  hands  again.  "Ba This  is 

nonsense,  Winnie."  She  held  Winnie's  hands  firmly. 
Her  own  hands  were  dry  and  hot. 

Mrs.  Price  felt  strange  with  herself.  The  words 
had  changed  her.  She  was  in  a  new  place. 

"How  long  has  this "  She  tried  to  speak.  Her 

throat  was  dry.  She  could  not  go  on. 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me — six  weeks — two  months — I  don't 
know !" 

"Winnie,  are  you  sure  of  this?" 

"I'm  sure  of  it." 

Mrs.  Price's  grip  on  Winnie's  arms  relaxed.  Winnie 
lay  still,  moaning. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  149 

Mrs.  Price  got  up.  Her  eyes  looked  wasted  with 
fear.  She  stared  helplessly  at  her  daughter. 

"Oh,  Winnie,  what  shall  I  do  for  you?" 

Winnie's  nostrils,  very  wide  open,  quivered  like  those 
of  a  mare  crazy  with  a  painful  bit.  "I  won't !  I'll  die 
first !"  she  said.  "I  won't !" 

Laurence  was  around  her,  in  her,  formless  like  smoke. 
Her  animosity  to  him  was  living  its  separate  life  within 
her. 

She  sobbed  herself  into  numbness.  She  would  not 
feel  it.  She  wanted  the  life  in  her  to  lie  cold  and 
numb.  Her  breasts  swelled.  She  thought  she  could 
feel  the  milk  flowing  through  them  like  shame  through 
her  flesh. 

Mrs.  Price  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  clasping 
and  unclasping  her  hands.  "Yes,  I'll  send  for  Dr. 
Beach.  We  must  send  for  Dr.  Beach.  I  cannot  under- 
stand your  husband,  Winnie." 

Bewildered  by  the  catastrophe  as  she  was,  it  gave 
her  a  certain  feeling  of  assurance  to  be  able  unre- 
servedly to  condemn  Laurence  again. 

She  gazed  at  Winnie  prone  on  the  bed  and  felt  sud- 
denly sickened  with  futility.  All  of  Mrs.  Price  sick- 
ened and  armed  against  Laurence.  She  wanted  to 
snatch  the  child  from  the  taint  of  its  father  as  from 
a  disease. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  this  sooner,  Winnie?  Some- 
thing might  have  been  done.  You  know  how  unwise 
this  is  in  your  state." 

Winnie  stared  at  her  mother.    "I'm  going  to  die.** 

Again  tears  swam  in  Mrs.  Price's  eyes,  but  she  would 


150  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

not  unbend  herself.  "No,  dear,  you  are  not  going  to 
die.  We  will  take  good  care  of  you  and  you  will  come 
through  this  terrible  thing." 

Winnie  stirred  wearily  and  impatiently.  "I  don't 
care.  I'm  going  to  die."  She  was  stubborn  and  calm 
now.  Die  was  a  stupid  word  like  dust.  It  settled  dully 
upon  her  pain. 


Mrs.  Price  wrote  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Farley.  "Winnie 
is  evidently  going  to  have  another  baby.  This  is  a 
great  misfortune.  I  cannot  understand  how  Laurence 
allowed  this  to  occur.  In  her  state  you  may  imagine !" 

It  was  apparent  that  Mrs.  Price  was  alarmed  and 
that  in  writing  the  letter  her  hand  had  trembled,  but 
it  was  plain  too  that  in  her  veiled  reproaches  she 
was  still  delicately  gratifying  her  hatred  of  Laurence. 


Winnie,  waiting  for  Dr.  Beach,  refused  to  stay  in 
bed.  She  got  up  and  put  on  a  flowered  neglige  and 
sat  by  the  open  window.  Looking  down  the  long  wet 
road,  she  hated  the  hill  that  set  itself  up  heavily  be- 
tween her  and  the  sky.  She  hated  life  that  came  to 
the  end  of  itself  abruptly  like  the  road  to  the  horizon 
at  the  end  of  the  hill. 

When  Dr.  Beach  came  in  Winnie  spoke  to  him  re- 
sentfully, and  when  her  mother  told  him  what  was  the 
matter,  blushed  a  defiant  crimson. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  151 

It  was  a  delicate  situation  to  consider.  All  three 
people  thought  of  Laurence  with  condemnation,  but 
mention  of  him  was  eschewed.  When  Mrs.  Price  talked 
her  voice  was  choked  with  pent  opprobrium. 

Dr.  Beach  told  Winnie  to  undo  Jier  dressing  gown. 
When  he  examined  her,  his  hot  hands  touched  her  cold 
body  here  and  there  lightly. 

She  felt  her  body  harshen  to  his  touch.  It  was  at 
the  moment  when  his  hand  touched  her  that  the  child 
became  hers.  It  was  not  that  she  wanted  the  child,  but 
that  she  wanted  the  thing  the  man  could  not  touch.  She 
hated  the  day  when  the  child  would  no  longer  be  secret. 

After  the  doctor  had  touched  her  and  made  her 
aware  of  the  child  she  ceased  in  part  to  feel  that 
Laurence  was  in  the  child's  flesh.  She  would  have  liked 
to  think  of  herself  as  the  only  creature  capable  of  giv- 
ing birth. 

Dr.  Beach  was  uncomfortable.  He  talked  vaguely. 
He  had  advised  her  against  having  a  child,  but  because 
it  would  have  been  better  to  avoid  this  contingency 
there  was  no  reason  to  suppose  she  would  not  pull 
through  all  right.  "Above  all,"  he  told  Mrs.  Price, 
"keep  her  mind  off  herself.  Do  not  allow  her  to  be- 
come depressed." 


Nearly  four  months  had  passed  while  Winnie  re- 
mained in  the  country  with  her  mother.  Autumn  was 
at  a  close. 

One  day  Winnie  felt  her  flesh  move.     This  quicken- 


152  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

ing  was  as  though  she  had  never  before  known  herself 
with  child.  She  conjectured  for  the  first  time  all  of 
the  inevitable  details  of  the  baby's  birth.  There  was 
nothing  to  speculate.  She  felt  herself  caught  in  the 
grip  of  this  horrible  sameness. 

One  Sunday  Mr.  Price  came  down  from  town  to  see 
them.  He  had  the  air  of  a  victor,  and  Mrs.  Price, 
who  was  conquering  the  exultance  of  her  resentment 
toward  Laurence,  felt  guilty  in  understanding  her  hus- 
band's secret  content. 

"That  man  ought  to  be  killed!"  Mr.  Price  said  to 
his  wife.  "He  ought  to  be  strung  up  and  tarred  and 
feathered.  Nothing  is  too  severe  to  do  to  a  fellow  like 
that.  I  suppose  you'll  say  that  for  Winnie's  sake  we 
must  keep  our  hands  off." 

Mrs.  Price  was  agitated.  "Oh,  yes,  we  must  try 
to  keep  the  peace  for  Winnie's  sake.  You  must  re- 
member, Perry,  this  is  a  hard  time  for  her." 

Mr.  Price  walked  back  and  forth  across  the  room, 
flapping  his  coat-tails  with  his  hands  and  blowing  out 
his  mustache.  "I  should  say  it  was !  I  should  say  it 
was !"  he  repeated.  He  had  his  head  lowered  like  that 
of  a  bull  about  to  charge,  and  in  the  depths  of  his 
murky  blue  eyes  glowed  a  surreptitious  spark  of  tri- 
umph. "Bad  blood  in  that  Farley  family,"  he  said. 

Winnie  came  into  the  room  reluctantly,  prepared  to 
resist  her  father's  bullying.  Her  soft  eyes  were  hard 
with  reserves. 

Mr.  Price  came  up  to  her  and  gave  her  a  dominating 
caress.  "Well,  Winifred,  how  are  you,  my  dear  little 
girl?" 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  153 

She  returned  his  perfunctory  kiss,  her  moist  lips  cool 
with  distaste. 

"Feeling  pretty  badly,  dear?" 

"No,  Father.     I'm  feeling  pretty  well." 

He  cleared  his  throat.     He  was  'disappointed. 

"I  ought  to  be  going  home,"  Winnie  pouted,  smiling 
a  little,  "but  Mother  won't  let  me.  I  had  letters  from 
Laurie  and  Mamma  Farley  just  to-day  and  they  are 
worried  about  me."1 

"Worried  about  you !  So  are  we  worried  about  you ! 
I'd  like  to  know  where  home  is  if  it's  not  right  here 
with  your  mother!  Your  own  mother  is  certainly  the 
one  to  take  care  of  you  when  you're  in  this  state!" 

"Mamma  Farley  took  care  of  me  when  my  other 
two  babies  were  born,"  Winnie  said  stiffly. 

Mr.  Price  choked,  and  to  relieve  himself,  went  to  the 
window  and  spit. 

Mrs.  Price  began  to  speak  tremulously  for  his  com- 
fort. "Those  were  circumstances  we  couldn't  help, 
dear.  Thank  Heaven  that  this  time,  when  you  are 
really  more  seriously  in  need  of  us,  we  are  here  beside 
you  to  do  everything  in  our  power.  I  think  Winnie 
ought  to  lie  "down  and  rest,"  Mrs.  Price  said,  shep- 
herding her  husband  out  of  the  room  before  his  exult- 
ance  should  become  too  crass. 


Laurence  came  heavily  into  the  house  and  hung  up 
his  hat.  All  day  he  had  felt  the  new  child,  a  fiery 
thread  through  the  blackness  of  his  mind  sewing  him 


154  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

to  earth.  His  fear  of  the  new  child  smoldered  like  a 
hot  ache  in  the  back  of  his  brain. 

Thirty-one  years  old.  He  could  not  bear  to  recall 
in  detail  the  incidents  of  his  life.  He  had  achieved 
nothing;  so  he  had  ceased  to  believe  in  achievement. 
As  a  boy  he  had  invariably  thought  of  himself  in 
grandiose  and  ultra-masculine  roles.  When  girls  had 
come  into  his  dreams  they  had  come  in  gratitude  to 
receive  some  contemptuous  beneficence  at  his  hands. 
He  was  ashamed  now  when  he  recalled  the  gauche  sense 
of  superiority  that  had  showed  itself  in  bad  manners. 
And  yet  his  habit  of  mind  remained  the  same.  When 
he  ceased  to  give  himself  he  would  admit  equality,  and 
he  could  not  do  that.  His  pride  bound  him  to  endless 
obligations.  Against  Winnie,  he  obliterated  gladness 
in  himself  and  denied  his  acquisitive  spirit.  She  should 
have  him  all  and  he  would  be  nothing. 

The  door  in  the  hall  opened  behind  Laurence  and 
closed  with  a  sharp  click  of  the  latch.  Laurence  moved 
in  the  heaviness  of  circles,  but  Alice's  movements  were 
always  angular  and  resistent. 

"Hello,  Laurie,"  she  said  coldly.  They  seldom  talked 
together. 

The  gas  flame  burnt  blue  in  the  cold  hall.  Alice 
took  off  her  beaver  sailor  hat  and  hung  it  beside 
Laurence's  acid-stained  derby. 

She  looked  at  him.  The  patience  she  read  in  his 
coarse  florid  face  was  like  everything  else  in  the  house. 
The  house  at  night  was  a  monstrous  phlegmatic  beast 
half  drowned.  Its  inmates  were  sightless  parasites. 

Alice   was   pugnacious.     "What's    the   matter  with 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  155 

you?"  she  joked  brusquely.  "Winnie  hasn't  had  twins, 
has  she?" 

"Winnie's  all  right,"  Laurence  said. 

"How  do  you  regard  the  prospect  of  becoming  a 
proud  father  a  third  time,  Laurence?"  she  demanded 
suddenly.  She  knew  she  was  offensive  but  felt  she 
must  wrench  something  from  this  huge  mass  of  bitterly 
desponding  flesh. 

The  world  was  muted  with  fleshiness  and  heaviness. 
Only  in  her  own  body  pain  rang  clear  and  sharp  and 
chiming  sweet.  Her  pain  was  her  beauty  that  she 
kept  inside  herself.  It  was  her  virginity.  She  felt  that 
he  had  no  beauty  of  pain. 

"You  are  the  only  thing  that  reconciles  me  to  it, 
Alice,"  he  retorted  sourly. 

"A  benighted  old  spinster,  eh?" 

"Well,  I  have  a  pretty  wife  and  shall  soon  have 
three  lovely  children.  My  state  has  its  compensatory 
illusions. " 

"Ah,  yes,  I  suppose  it  has."  She  did  not  know  what 
more  to  say  to  him.  He  walked  into  the  living-room, 
ignoring  her. 

It  was  a  moment  before  she  could  make  herself  fol- 
low him. 

If  Winnie  died How  did  these  things  happen? 

Laurence  was  almost  like  a  murderer. 

For  a  moment  she  envied  him,  then  in  her  terrible 
emptiness  she  felt  herself  more  beautiful  than  he. 

Mad.    I'm  going  mad.    He  doesn't  know. 

Laurence  wanted  to  get  away  from  her.  His  ex- 
pression of  life  was  always  bitter  and  cheap  and  he 


156  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

knew  it,  but  he  was  rather  proud  of  the  exquisiteness 
which  made  it  unendurable  for  him  to  tell  the  truth 
to  himself.  He  despised  Alice  for  the  brutal  veracity 
of  her  introspection.  Alice  carried  pain  of  self  like 
a  banner.  He  felt  that  her  arrogant  suffering  showed 
a  want  of  fineness.  To  dare  to  see  as  she  did,  he  felt, 
one  must  be  emotionally  dull. 

Winnie  was  false  and  puerile,  but  because  he  felt 
that  the  truth  would  kill  Winnie,  she  seemed  to  him 
more  delicate  and  beautiful  than  Alice. 

Alice  recognized  that  Laurence  hated  her  because 
she  understood  him  too  well. 

She  could  not  comprehend  this.  She  would  have  let 
herself  be  known  even  in  utter  contempt.  She  was 
clouded  now  with  the  murk  of  herself  that  no  one  would 
know.  She  wanted  to  be  known  to  be  cleansed. 


Winnie  was  tired  of  the  country  that  left  her  too 
much  with  herself.  She  hated  the  empty  road  in  the 
bleak  days  and  the  black  tree  at  the  end  that  swayed 
against  the  damp  green  twilights.  She  was  glad  when 
Mrs.  Price  agreed  that  it  was  time  for  them  to  go  back 
to  the  city. 

They  left  the  farmhouse  at  night.  Mr.  Price  had 
sent  his  car  out  and  in  it  they  were  driven  to  the 
station,  ten  miles  away.  It  was  moonlight.  The  pine 
trees  along  the  road  tossed  their  green  hair  in  the 
wind.  The  long  boughs  swept  the  ground.  The  trees 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  157 

clutched  the  earth  with  their  roots  as  if  in  a  frenzy. 
They  would  not  give  way. 

At  the  deserted  station  one  light  burned  over  the 
window  where  the  telegraph  operator  worked.  They 
sat  for  a  long  time  in  the  dim  wailing  room,  until  the 
big  train,  fiery  and  terrible,  rushed  out  of  nothing  and 
came  to  a  standstill  at  the  end  of  the  platform. 

When  they  went  into  the  long  dim  car  hung  with 
green  curtains,  every  one  was  asleep. 

Mrs.  Price  helped  her  daughter  to  undress  and 
Winnie  lay  down  on  her  side  in  the  lower  berth  with 
the  window  shade  up.  As  she  lay  there  and  the  train 
began  to  move,  the  oppression  of  the  last  few  weeks 
culminated  in  her  emotions,  in  an  unreasoning1  panic, 
and  she  imagined  that  she  was  already  dead. 

It  was  foggy.  The  train  passed  through  a  railway 
yard  and  Winnie  saw  rows  of  empty  cars,  long  and 
low,  that  were  like  monsters  with  lusterless  hides  and 
opaque  eyes,  submerged  in  mist.  Hundreds  of  dull 
eyes  stared  from  the  dimly  shining  windows,  the  pale 
eyes  of  the  cars. 

Delicate  bridges  floated  over  her  head  as  the  train 
passed  beneath  them,  and  the  swinging  arms  of  der- 
ricks and  huge  machines,  lifted  through  the  mist,  were 
as  frail  as  lace. 

Lights  burst  against  the  mist  like  rotted  stars,  and 
there  were  other  lights  that  opened  upon  her  suddenly, 
glad  and  unseeing  as  the  eyes  of  blind  men  raised  in 
delight. 

The  moon,  small  with  distance,  slimed  over  with  fog, 
was  green  like  money  lost  a  long  time.  The  telegraph 


158  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

wires  stretched  across  the  pale  landscape  tautly,  like 
harpstrings.  One  after  another  the  flat  branched  poles 
seemed  to  open  submissive  palms  to  the  passing  train. 

Winnie  wanted  the  morning.  She  wanted  to  get  back 
to  Mamma  Farley  and  her  familiar  commonplace.  Be- 
fore expanding  in  voluptuous  rebellion,  Winnie  wanted 
to  know  that  the  cage  was  sure.  Somehow  Mamma 
Farley  made  her  more  certain  of  its  sureness. 

In  the  morning  they  alighted  in  the  teeming  station,, 
and  Winnie,  anxious  not  to  be  seen,  walked  a  little  be- 
hind Mrs.  Price.  Winnie  was  ashamed  of  herself.  She 
felt  herself  cold  and  isolated  in  the  vividness  of  the 
life  she  contained. 

At  the  big  gate  at  the  end  of  the  track,  they  met 
Laurence.  "Well,  Winnie.  Well,  Mrs.  Price." 

Winnie  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  shuddering  in 
softness.  She  showed  him  her  helplessness  against 
which  he  could  not  defend  himself.  When  she  lifted 
her  mouth  he  had  to  kiss  her.  She  was  ashamed  of 
his  shabby  clothes. 

Laurence  tried  to  say  something  to  Mrs.  Price. 
"You  look  well." 

"Yes,  and  Winnie  has  gotten  along  very  nicely  with 
me.  How  is  your  mother?  How  are  the  children?" 
She  did  not  look  at  him,  and  while  she  talked  she 
moistened  her  lips  that  were  like  paper  under  her 
tongue. 

In  the  waiting  room  they  met  Mr.  Price.  He  had 
arrived  at  the  train  a  few  moments  late  and  the  con- 
fusion of  the  incoming  crowd  had  carried  them  past 
him  before  he  knew  it. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  159 

He  was  gruff  and  short  with  Laurence.  "How-do, 
Farley?"  He  turned  quickly  to  Winnie.  "Well, 
Winnie,  you're  back,  are  you?  How  is  she,  Vivien? 
Mother  and  I  are  going  to  keep  a  tight  hold  on  you, 
my  young  lady.  We  are  going  to  see  that  your  health 
is  taken  care  of  after  this." 

"You'll  let  us  take  you  and  Winnie  home  in  the  car- 
riage?" Mrs.  Price  said  to  Laurence. 

"I  have  a  taxicab  for  Winnie,  Mrs.  Price,"  He  took 
Winnie's  arm.  She  protested  a  little. 

"It  seems  so  absurd,"  Mrs.  Price  demurred,  preserv- 
ing her  well-bred  poise,  but  plainly  irritated. 

Laurence,  pretending  not  to  hear,  dragged  Winnie 
on. 

Winnie  pouted  and  hung  back.  "You'll  come  to  see 
me  this  afternoon,  Mother,"  she  called  over  her  shoul- 
der. 

Mrs.  Price  nodded  and  smiled. 


It  was  Sunday.  Winnie  had  fallen  sick,  and,  to 
escape  the  feeling  of  tension  that  prevailed  at  home, 
Laurence  went  into  the  country  for  a  long  walk. 

Winnie  might  die.  Then  what?  In  the  sense  of 
oppression  he  experienced,  the  thought  of  Winnie's 
danger  awoke  something  in  him  which  he  refused  to 
recognize,  which  was  like  a  stealthy  and  terrible  hope 
of  relief. 

He  walked  on,  immersed  in  himself,  scarcely  real- 
izing that  he  moved.  Then  the  ardor  of  his  imaginings 


160  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

subsided  in  the  familiar  contours  of  being  and  he  saw 
the  road  again,  stretching  before  him  like  a  shadowed 
light  and  the  pale  trees  standing  away  on  either  side 
against  the  dim  enormous  sky. 

Laurence  wondered  if  he  had  grown  suddenly  old. 
Formerly,  without  articulating  it,  he  had  experienced 
a  sense  of  immanence  on  every  hand.  Now  he  felt  dry 
and  exhausted  in  his  nameless  understanding.  Every- 
thing remained  outside  him.  He  had  lost  the  power  of 
enlarging  his  being.  From  his  numbness  he  regarded 
enviously  what  he  considered  the  illusions  of  others, 
and  yet  his  exhaustion  seemed  to  him  the  sum  of  life 
and  he  could  not  but  consider  with  contempt  all  those 
who  imagined  that  there  was  anything  further. 

Only  the  horror  that  was  between  Winnie  and  him- 
self gave  him  a  little  life.  The  hideousness  of  his  father- 
hood made  his  apathy  glow  a  little  like  an  illumined 
grimace.  Through  sheer  irrelevance  it  seemed  to  have 
some  meaning.  He  began  to  depend  on  this  ugly  fact 
of  the  child  he  did  not  want. 

Yet  he  could  not  bear  to  be  in  the  sickroom  where 
Winnie  was.  Her  sweetly  pathetic  commonplace  was 
so  grotesquely  familiar  that  he  could  scarcely  endure 
to  be  aware  of  it  close  to  the  sense  of  what  she  held. 

In  these  days  she  was  keenly  dramatizing  herself. 
She  glanced  stealthily  sidewise  at  the  mirror  and  the 
Madonna  look  came  into  her  face.  When  Bobby  and 
May  were  beside  her,  she  drew  them  within  her  thin 
little  arms  and  pressed  them  to  her  breast  with  an  air 
of  ecstasy  and  reverence. 

But  she  did  not  care  to  have  them  close  to  her  for 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  161 

long,  and  if  they  fell  into  some  childish  dispute  she 
called,  in  a  peevish  complaining  voice,  for  Mamma 
Farley,  and  said  that  no  one  considered  her  or  remem- 
bered that  she  was  sick. 

When  Laurence  reached  home  after  his  walk  it  was 
eleven  o'clock.  He  passed  through  the  still  house 
and  up  the  stairs  to  the  bedroom,  wondering  if  Winnie 
were  asleep.  When  he  opened  the  door  he  saw  the  light 
shining  on  her  where  she  lay  on  the  lounge  with  her 
eyes  shut. 

Her  mop  of  reddish  hair  was  tangled  about  her  face, 
turned  to  one  side  on  the  pillows.  The  gold  edges  of 
her  lashes  rested  delicately  on  her  shadowed  cheek. 
She  heard  Laurence,  and  stirred. 

With  a  nauseous  sense  of  inevitability,  he  waited  for 
her  to  turn  upon  him  her  look  of  conscious  sweetness. 

"You  were  gone  so  long,  Laurie !"  She  blinked  at 
him  and  smiled  drowsily. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "I  went  for  a  long  walk." 

She  made  a  little  mouth.  "I've  been  back  suoh  a  little 
while,  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  leave  me  when  it's 
Sunday,  Laurie." 

"You'll  like  me  better  if  you  don't  see  too  much  of 
me."  His  joke  was  stiff.  He  looked  as  though  his 
false  smile  hurt  him. 

Winnie  gazed  at  him.  Her  mouth  began  to  quiver. 
"I  get  so  lonesome,  Laurie.  Mamma  Farley  goes  off 
with  Bobby  and  May,  and  Alice  is  always  poked  away 
in  her  room!" 

He  did  not  answer  this.  "It's  cold  in  here.  Mother 
shouldn't  have  let  the  fire  die  down."  He  walked  over 


162  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

to  the  grate  and  with  his  fingers  laid  some  lumps  out 
of  the  scuttle  upon  the  hot  coals.  "Keep  that  shawl 
around  you,  Winnie.  Hadn't  I  better  call  Mother  and 
tell  her  to  help  you  to  get  to  bed?" 

He  came  back  to  her.  She  did  not  speak  to  him. 
Tears  rolled  from  her  open  eyes  and  left  wet  smears 
along  her  lifted  face. 

"All  worn  out,  eh?"  He  touched  her  hair  uncom- 
fortably. "I'll  call  Mother.  She  always  knows  what 
to  do  for  you.  I  don't." 

She  clung  to  his  hand.  "You  don't  hate  me  because 
I'm  like  this,  do  you,  Laurie?" 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Winnie,  child.  You're  worn  out  or 
you  wouldn't  talk  this  way."  He  put  her  gently  from 
him.  "I'm  going  to  call  Mother." 

She  began  to  sob.  "You  want  to  go !  I  don't  want 
you  to  touch  me  if  you  hate  me!" 

Smiling  wearily,  he  looked  at  her.  It  was  a  kind  of 
relief  to  him  to  be  unable  to  defend  himself.  "Since  I 
make  you  cry,  I  think  I'd  better  go,  Winnie." 

"Oh,"  she  sobbed,  "you  make  me  cry  by  not  wanting 
me!  You  hurt  me  so.  You're  so  cruel !" 

Still  he  stood  helpless,  not  touching  her.  "For  your 
own  sake,  you  must  stop,  Winnie." 

"If — if  you  call  Mamma  Farley  in  here  now  I'll — 
I'll  kill  myself!" 

"No,  you  won't,  Winnie."  His  voice  shook.  "But  if 
you  don't  want  me  to  call  her,  I  won't." 

Winnie  became  a  little  calmer.  Then  she  said,  more 
soberly,  "You  neglect  and  despise  me." 

"I  don't,  Winnie." 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

"You  do!"  She  sat  up  quickly.  Her  eyes  insisted 
on  his  reply. 

"Do  you  believe  that?  Does  my  life  really  indicate 
that  to  you?" 

Her  little  face  was  hard.  "You  do  things  for  me," 
she  contended,  "but  it's  not  because  you  love  me !" 

His  smile  faltered.  He  shrugged  wearily.  "It  would 
be  hopeless  for  me  to  attempt  to  justify  myself,  Winnie, 
but  for  the  sake  of  your  health  and  your  baby"  (he 
looked  at  her  straightforwardly)  "we  must  try  to  over- 
come this  continual  bickering." 

She  looked  steadily  with  her  dissolving  gaze  against 
his  unpenetrated  eyes.  "Oh,  I  wish  my  children  didn't 
belong  to  you !"  she  said  suddenly. 

He  glanced  away  from  her.  "If  I  thought  you  and 
the  children  could  do  without  me  I  might  agree  to  re- 
sign my  parental  rights,"  he  said  with  a  slight  sneer. 

She  pressed  her  hands  together,  regarding  him  in 
silence.  Finally  she  said,  "Oh,  I  know  you'd  be  glad 
to !"  She  was  crying  soundlessly. 

He  does  not  love  me. 

She  felt  sorry  for  herself.  She  felt  the  slightness 
of  her  body  and  the  fragileness  of  her  bones.  She  was 
new  and  real  to  herself  in  her  illusion  of  smallness  that 
made  it  easier  for  her  to  relinquish  her  pride. 

She  turned  her  face  from  him  and  lay  back  on  the 
pillow  again.  Voluptuously,  she  was  conscious  of  her 
weakness.  With  infinite  and  exquisite  contempt,  she 
loved  herself. 

"Laurie?"  Her  fingers  picked  the  cover.  She  did 
not  look  at  them,  but  she  knew  them,  little  and  thin, 


164  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

and  remembered  how  small  they  were  when  he  held  them 
in  his  clumsiness.  "Won't  you  kiss  me,  Laurie?" 

Hating  himself  for  his  helplessness,  he  leaned  over 
her  and  kissed  her. 

She  lifted  her  arms  to  him.  "Oh,  Laurie,  when  I'm 

sick  and  you  feel  this  way If  I  should  die,  I 

couldn't  bear  it !"  she  said. 

"But  you  won't  die,  Winnie.  You  won't  die !"  He 
gave  up,  leaning  his  face  against  her  hair.  Why  could 
they  never  touch  ? 

He  felt  the  child  stir  in  her  against  him,  and  the 
child  seemed  so  terrible  and  real  that  he  longed  for 
some  terrible  realness  in  them  with  which  to  understand 
the  child. 

Winnie  felt  the  child  stirring  between  them,  and  was 
ashamed.  It  kept  her  from  remembering  sweetly  the 
slightness  of  her  body  and  the  smallness  of  her  pretty 
outstretched  arms.  She  was  ugly  and  inert  at  the 
mercy  of  the  child. 

"Love  me,  Laurie !"  she  moaned.  "I  can't  help  being 
like  this !"  She  was  unfair  to  him,  but  the  agony  in 
her  voice  was  sweet  to  her  self-contempt. 

"Stop,  Winnie.  You  have  no  right  to  say  things  like 
that."  He  could  not  speak  any  more.  He  held  her 
close  up  against  him. 

To  herself  she  was  small  and  ugly  with  child  in  a 
small  dark  room.  She  kissed  his  hair,  stiff  and  bitter 
against  her  mouth.  She  envied  him  the  wonder  of  the 
fear  he  felt  for  her. 

But,  while  there  was  resentment  in  her,  it  elated  her 
to  inspire  this  horror  of  pity.  Small  and  weak  as 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  165 

she  was,  her  hands  were  the  hands  of  joy  and  agony. 
She  was  jealous  of  her  closeness  to  death,  half  afraid 
that  the  doctor  was  wrong.  She  wanted  to  be  in  dan- 
ger. Secretly,  her  weakness  fed  on  its  new  strength. 

"Dear  Laurie,"  she  said  tenderly. 

He  kissed  her  again.  "I've  worried  until  I'm  not  fit 
to  be  with  you,  Winnie,"  he  said.  Then  he  got  up. 
"I'll  call  Mother.  You  must  go  to  sleep."  With  tears 
in  his  eyes,  he  smiled  at  her. 

"Good  night,  Laurie,  dear."  Her  voice  was  stifled 
in  tears,  but  she  smiled  too. 

When  he  went  out  and  she  was  alone  in  the  room, 
the  recollection  of  his  pained  face  made  her  feel  that 
he  had  taken  something  from  her  that  belonged  to  her, 
that  she  was  incapable  of  holding. 


After  Christmas  Winnie  was  moved  into  the  back 
room  over  the  kitchen,  because  it  was  warmer  for  her  so. 

There  were  a  rag  carpet  here,  an  old-fashioned  cherry 
bedstead,  and  a  chest  of  drawers.  On  the  flowered 
wall  beside  the  bed  hung  a  German  print  which  repre- 
sented a  gamekeeper  who  had  caught  some  children 
stealing  apples.  It  was  a  very  old  print  with  a 
cracked  glass.  The  children  in  the  picture  had  strange 
oldish  faces.  The  girls  wore  long  skirts  and  the  boy 
had  half-length  pants.  The  gamekeeper,  with  side- 
whiskers  and  red  raddled  cheeks,  was  dressed  in  a  high 
hat,  a  short  brown  waistcoat,  and  tight  trousers.  To 


166  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

the  right  of  him,  in  the  foreground  of  the  scene,  two 
little  dachshunds  stood  sedately  at  attention. 

Winnie  stared  at  the  picture  until  she  hated  it. 

Sharp  specks  of  light  flecked  the  worn  green  shades 
that  darkened  the  windows.  The  room  faced  east  and 
at  four  o'clock  Winnie  watched  the  sun  set  over  the 
dim  purple  housetops.  Then  it  was  a  flat  white 
metal  disk  with  a  harsh  rim  of  whiter  fire.  But  half 
an  hour  later  it  was  only  a  pinkish  welter  around  which 
floated  wispy  clouds  that  looked  burning  hot,  like 
feathers  dipped  in  molten  ore.  By  five  o'clock  every- 
thing had  disintegrated  in  the  lilac  dust  of  twilight. 

The  doctor  advised  Winnie  that,  in  order  to  avoid 
a  premature  confinement,  she  must  move  about  as  little 
as  possible.  But  she  was  so  bored  when  she  was  alone 
that  she  sometimes  put  on  a  fancy  house  gown,  pow- 
dered her  nose,  and  went  downstairs.  Every  one,  by 
an  exaggerated  consideration,  seemed  determined  to 
make  her  aware  of  her  state.  As  she  walked  she  was 
obliged  to  sway  grotesquely  backward  to  balance  the 
weight  she  carried  before  her.  When  she  passed  the 
long  mirror  in  the  little-used  parlor,  and  saw  herself 
hideous  and  inflated,  she  burst  into  tears. 

Her  mother  was  often  at  the  house,  and  there  was 
nothing  so  sickening  to  Winnie  as  the  sweet  platitudes 
which  Mrs.  Price  was  constantly  uttering. 

"The  dear  little  baby!"  Mrs.  Price  would  say. 
"What  a  wonderful  thing  it  is  to  be  a  mother!"  Her 
flat  face  was  alight  with  the  sickish  reflection  of  a 
memory  that  was  growing  dim. 

Mrs.  Farley,  with  no  more  animation,  was  less  re- 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  167 

fined,  and  Winnie  could  say  things  to  the  mother-in' 
law  which  the  mother  would  not  have  listened  to.  For 
some  reason  it  satisfied  Winnie  to  discuss  her  condition 
with  irrelevant  vulgarity.  She  hated  her  family  for 
dedicating  her  to  this  sordid  thing  every  minute  of  her 
life.  There  was  something  false*  in  their  heightened 
regard  of  her  which  existed  because  she  was  sick  and 
weak. 

She  had  become  accustomed  to  feeling  the  baby  move 
in  her.  Its  life  had  become  definite  and  independent 
of  her.  It  lay  in  her,  complete,  as  though  it  had  no 
right  there.  Yet  her  mother,  in  particular,  talked  as 
though  the  child  were  a  hope  and  a  wonder  still  in 
dream.  As  though  they  must  keep  their  hearts  fixed 
upon  it  and  pray  it  into  being. 

It  seemed  to  Winnie  that  her  life  was  being  taken 
away  and  given  to  the  child. 


There  was  almost  a  frenzy  about  Mrs.  Farley's 
attention  to  work.  She  got  up  at  half  past  five  in  the 
morning,  and  in  the  still  gray  dawn  when  the  grass 
in  the  back  yard  was  silver  with  rime  she  took  out 
the  ashes  in  a  big  bucket  and  emptied  them  into  the 
bin  in  the  alley.  The  gray  dust  settled  on  her  uncov- 
ered hair,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  know  it.  Stiff  locks, 
sticky  with  dirt,  hung  about  her  grimed  face.  Her 
flannel  waist  was  half  out  of  the  band  of  her  draggled 
skirt.  Her  hands,  crimson  at  the  knuckles,  and  grained 
with  the  filth  of  labor,  clutched  the  ash  can  stiffly. 


168  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Mr.  Farley  knew  his  wife's  abstraction  was  intended 
as  a  rebuke  to  him,  but  he  wanted  to  hide  behind  it. 
Her  continually  averted  face  bewildered  him,  and  at 
the  same  time  left  him  grateful. 

His  life  had  been  ruined.  He  had  sacrificed  every- 
thing. And  now  he  was  offered  the  opportunity  to 
escape. 

Since  Helen  had  left  the  city  again,  the  project  for 
their  future  which  had  been  forced  into  his  mind 
appeared  to  him  as  a  dream  out  of  which  he  had  been 
allotted  the  impossible  task  of  making  reality. 

His  wife,  concentrating  herself  upon  household 
things,  seemed  to  him  strong  and  natural.  She  had 
ground  under  her  feet.  She  had  selected  the  carpet 
she  walked  on.  It  was  hers.  When  he  passed  through 
a  room  where  she  was  at  work  and  she  swept  dust  into 
his  eyes,  he  did  not  rebel.  The  grit  in  his  eyes  was 
the  truth  of  her  right.  He  had  no  carpet  and  no  house 
in  which  to  make  his  dream.  He  knew  that,  even  though 
he  had  bought  the  house,  it  was  hers,  because  she 
wanted  it.  In  his  uncertainty  he  was  ashamed  before 
her  because  her  wants  were  so  definite  and  limited. 

Sometimes,  in  his  confusion,  he  passed  judgment 
upon  himself  before  he  knew  whom  it  was  that  he  judged. 
In  a  panic,  he  tried  to  find  some  sure  conception  of 
himself  to  hold  against  the  ebb  and  flow  of  his  irreso- 
lution. Winnie's  precarious  health  gave  him  the  loop- 
hole he  needed.  Until  the  baby  was  born,  he  must 
hold  in  abeyance  the  contemplation  of  his  own  affairs. 
He  owed  it  to  her. 

"Poor  little  Winnie  I"  he  often  said.    "I  miss  her  so 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  169 

when  she  is  not  at  meals.  She  should  be  the  first 
thought  of  all  of  us  now.  We  should  let  our  individual 
problems  go  until  we  can  see  her  through  her  trouble." 
His  wife  understood  that  he  was  excusing  himself 
for  what  he  had  not  done.  In  the  beginning  of  their 
disagreement,  when  she  was  frightened  with  the  strange- 
ness of  her  situation,  she  had  waited,  in  a  numb  agony 
of  quiescence,  for  the  first  legal  steps  to  be  taken. 
Nothing  had  occurred,  and  she  still  waited.  But  there 
was  furtive  listening  in  her  attitude.  She  listened  and, 
in  spite  of  herself,  was  glad. 


The  gas  jet  was  shaded  so  that  the  glow  fell  only 
on  half  the  bed  where  the  footboard  made  darkness 
like  an  echo  on  the  wall.  Winnie's  supper,  untasted, 
was  in  a  tray  on  a  chair:  tea,  black  with  long  standing, 
and  shriveled  toast  on  a  chipped  plate. 

On  the  chest  of  drawers,  glasses  and  medicine  bottles 
marked  themselves  in  separate  blackness  against  the 
blank  brilliant  yellow-papered  wall.  In  front  of  them 
was  a  china  holder  with  a  bent  candle  beside  which 
some  one  had  laid  the  rust-pink  core  of  an  apple. 

About  the  big  looking-glass  the  frame  of  purplish 
wood  was  rich  with  satin  reflections,  but  the  glass  it 
surrounded  was  gray  and  still  and  mirrored  a  part  of 
the  bed  and  the  German  print  as  though  they  were 
a  long  way  off. 

The  fire  had  burned  low  and  the  room  was  hot  and 
had  a  close  smell. 


170  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

i 

Winnie  wore  a  thick  cotton  nightdress  with  long 
sleeves.  Ruffles  of  coarse  embroidery  set  stiffly  away 
from  her  thin  wrists.  She  felt  herself  hot  and  light 
against  the  cold  pillow  and  the  cold  damp  linen. 

The  window  shades  were  up,  and  she  could  see  the 
moonlight,  faint  outside.  The  moonlight  grew  in  the 
room  as  the  fire  died  down.  The  steady  burn  of  the 
gas  flame  was  cold,  like  liquid  glass  flowing  over  the 
dark. 

Winnie's  feet  grew  cold.  She  began  to  shiver.  The 
cold  crept  up  her  legs  under  her  nightdress.  It  was 
like  grass  growing  up  her. 

The  fire  in  the  grate  sputtered  and  flared  out  again. 
It  grew  too  bright.  It  stung  her. 

The  brightness  flowed  into  her  eyes  until  they  were 
like  hot  pools,  and  she  could  not  see. 

When  Mrs.  Farley  came  to  take  the  tray  away, 
Winnie  had  a  high  fever,  and  Dr.  Beach  had  to  be 
called  in  the  same  evening. 


It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  In  Winnie's 
bedroom  the  window  was  slightly  lifted  to  let  in  the 
soft  spring  air.  The  room  was  flooded  with  an  apricot- 
colored  glow.  Pink  dots  of  sunlight  moved  on  the 
wall. 

The  polished  chest  of  drawers  and  the  cherry  bed- 
stead were  a  deep  rich  red.  There  were  lilac  shadows 
on  the  cool  sheets  hollowed  by  Winnie's  upraised  knees. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE      .  171 

The  picture  of  the  gamekeeper  dissolved  in  pale  sun- 
shine. 

Winnie  was  sunk  in  a  dream  when  a  sudden  pain 
widened  her  eyes.  She  sat  up  astonished,  for  she  knew 
what  the  pain  meant.  It  was  like  a  challenge.  The 
child  had  come  to  wrestle  with  her. 

The  pain  came  again  and  she  clenched  her  fists  until 
the  nails  made  little  red  half-moons  in  her  soft  full 
palms.  She  had  closed  her  eyes,  but  when  she  opened 
them  they  shone  with  a  new  and  fierce  aliveness. 

Winnie  spread  her  toes  out  tensely  against  nothing. 
Each  time  the  pain  came  to  her  she  seemed  to  know 
the  whole  world  with  her  hips  and  thighs.  Then  she 
lay  back  exhausted,  feeling  knowledge  ebb  away  in  the 
tingling  peace  of  relief. 

When  Mrs.  Farley  came  into  the  room  to  carry  away 
the  soiled  lunch  tray,  Winnie  was  unable  to  speak,  but 
the  shifting  determined  eyes  of  the  older  woman  gave 
one  quick  glance  and  guessed  what  had  come  about. 

Mrs.  Farley  ran  out  and  called  Dr.  Beach  and  Mrs. 
Price  on  the  telephone.  Later  she  remembered 
Laurence. 

Winnie  was  aware  of  the  confusion  in  her  room.  She 
even  understood  that  the  physician  and  her  mother 
were  discussing  whether  or  not  she  should  be  moved  to 
a  hospital.  But  in  the  reality  of  suffering  their  voices 
and  faces  were  unreal. 

If  there  had  been  no  surcease  Winnie  could  not  have 
borne  it,  but  just  when  she  felt  that  she  could  endure 
least,  pain  went  out  of  her  like  a  quenched  light,  and 
she  sank  faintly  as  if  into  a  memory  of  herself. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

It  had  grown  dark.  A  shaded  lamp  was  lit.  A 
nurse  had  come  from  the  hospital  and  Mrs.  Price  and 
Mrs.  Farley  were  sent  out. 

The  nurse  was  a  tall  woman  with  a  plump,  sallow 
face  and  small  confident  eyes.  Her  nose  was  fat  with 
widened  nostrils  that  were  slightly  inflamed.  Her 
peaked  cap  set  up  very  high  on  her  untidy  gray  hair. 
When  she  walked  her  starched  skirt  rattled  like  paper. 
She  came  and  stood  by  the  bedside  and  was  harsh 
and  still  like  the  shadows  on  the  wall. 

Dr.  Beach  was  a  stooped,  middle-aged  man  with  a 
bald  head  and  inscrutably  professional  eyes.  In  his 
shirt  sleeves,  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  Winnie's  bed,  rattling 
the  chain  on  his  vest  or  looking  at  his  watch  and 
coughing  occasionally.  Sometimes  he  spoke  to  the 
nurse  in  an  undertone. 

When  he  laid  his  cold  hand,  covered  with  blond 
hair,  on  Winnie's  warm  flesh,  she  shuddered  to  his 
touch.  She  hated  the  assertive  hand  on  her,  demanding 
her  back  out  of  pain.  The  heavy  hand  weighed  down 
her  glory  and  she  sank  back,  dimmed. 

The  bent  candle  on  the  chest  of  drawers  made 
another  black  bent  candle  behind  it.  On  the  wall,  back 
of  the  row  of  medicine  bottles,  were  other  bottles  that 
seemed  never  to  have  moved  since  the  world  began. 
The  pictures  had  each  their  separate  stillness  of 
shadow.  The  print  of  the  German  gamekeeper  floated, 
drowned,  on  the  gray  becalmed  glass  opposite.  A 
heavy  breath  bellied  the  shade  before  the  window,  and 
swung  it  slowly  inward.  Then  it  relaxed  heavily  into 
its  place  against  the  sill. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  173 

Outside  the  moonless  night,  as  if  choked  with  quiet, 
crowded  up  from  the  empty  street. 

When  Winnie  lifted  her  lids  a  little  they  showed  only 
the  lower  rim  of  the  pain-flecked  irises.  Dr.  Beach 
examined  the  purplish  nails  on  her  -cold  hands  and  felt 
her  pulse  uneasily. 

Suddenly  Winnie  clutched  at  the  nurse's  hands,  and, 
with  eyes  open  and  unseeing,  uttered  shriek  after  shriek. 

The  sick  woman  was  lost  in  pain  as  in  a  wilder- 
ness. Her  hands  and  feet  were  strange.  The  bed 
was  strange.  In  the  vast  bed,  so  far  from  one  end 
to  the  other,  she  had  lost  her  feet. 

She  knew  there  was  blood  on  her.  The  world  poured 
from  her,  molten. 

The  nurse  put  the  chloroform  cap  over  Winnie's 
nose.  Then  her  head  detached  itself  from  her  body 
and  floated  over  the  bed.  Her  head  danced  like  a 
golden  thistle  on  a  pool  of  blood. 

Her  lightness  expanded.  She  was  vastly  light.  And 
the  body  in  the  bed  in  the  dark  pool  grew  still,  and 
small,  and  far  off.  She  was  pale  and  angry  with  joy. 

But  through  the  mist  of  herself,  something  leaped 
angrily  upon  her  and  dragged  her  to  earth.  Hot  claws 
sank  into  her.  She  sank,  nerveless,  in  the  infinite  dark- 
ness. 

She  was  in  bed  again.  The  vast  bed  stretched  from 
side  to  side  of  the  unseen  sky,  and  oscillated  like  a  ship. 

Not  enough  chloroform.  She  wanted  to  tell  them, 
but  they  were  too  far  away.  They  could  not  have 
heard. 


174  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

She  saw  the  bright  things  in  the  doctor's  bag.  Then 
long  claws  of  steel. 

She  wanted  to  scream.  Her  tongue  and  lips  were 
wool.  She  knew  that  far  away,  out  of  the  darkness 
which  did  not  belong  to  her,  something  warm  and  moist 
slipped.  The  child  emerged  from  the  blackness  in 
which  she  was  still  caught. 

The  child  passed  from  the  torture  which  went  on 
without  it. 


"Mrs.  Farley,  it's  over.  You  can  rest."  The  nurse 
leaned  close.  Winnie  felt  the  nurse's  breath,  dry  and 
hot  as  a  sirocco,  blown  on  her  cold  ear  across  the 
dark. 

What  did  it  matter  to  the  rocking  dark  that  the 
child  was  born?  Her  wrists  floated.  Her  heart 
strained  and  gathered  itself  as  if  for  its  most  profound 

joy- 
But  the  great  joy  to  which  she  opened,  slowly  trans- 
figured itself.  An  ugly  and  living  shudder  ran  through 
her.  The  joy  refused  her.  At  the  instant  in  which  she 
knew  it  entirely,  she  ceased  to  be.  Her  heart  stopped 
beating.  She  fell  back,  noiseless. 

The  nurse,  with  the  child  in  her  lap,  sat  by  a  porce- 
lain basin  cleansing  the  baby  with  a  big  sponge. 

Dr.  Beach  called  her  and  she  laid  the  baby  in  the 
new  crib  while  she  went  quickly  for  Mrs.  Farley. 

When  the  nurse  had  returned  and  Dr.  Beach  was 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  175 

working,  attempting  to  revive  Winnie,  Laurence  came 
into  the  room. 

He  saw  the  excitement  and  helplessness  of  the  doc- 
tor. Once  Winnie's  eyelids  seemed  to  twitch.  Then 
Laurence  leaned  forward  with  a  curious  unconscious 
eagerness.  He  asked  for  only  one  thing.  He  wanted 
to  know  that  Winnie  was  dead.  Stealthily  and  sus- 
piciously, he  watched  the  corpse,  hating  the  small  re- 
laxed body  that  had  tortured  him  with  its  suffering* 
He  wanted  to  know  that  there  was  no  more  pain. 


PART  IV 

MRS.  FARLEY  had  taken  the  baby,  with  its  crib, 
into  the  nursery.  She  was  seated  in  a  low  rocker, 
crying  by  the  nursery  fire,  when  May  woke  up. 

Rioused  from  sleep  by  her  grandmother's  sobs,  May 
saw  Mrs.  Farley,  with  trembling  lips  that  seemed 
withered  by  grief,  lifting  her  head  and  swaying  her 
thin  body,  one  knotted  hand  clutched  to  her  breast  as 
if  in  unendurable  pain. 

"What's  the  matter,  Grandma  Farley?"  May  asked 
when  she  could  endure  the  mystery  no  longer.  She  was 
like  an  inquisitive  little  animal,  expecting  to  be  beaten, 
but  determined  to  gain  its  end. 

Mrs.  Farley  pretended  not  to  have  heard.  She  was 
ashamed  because  she  did  not  know  how  to  explain  her 
suffering  to  the  child. 

"Is — is  anybody  sick,  Grandmother?  Is  Mamma 
worse  ?"  May  asked  again  with  piping  persistence.  She 
saw  the  crib  and  some  vagueness  in  it  curiously  agi- 
tated. "What's  that?"  she  said  excitedly. 

Mrs.  Farley  rose  stiffly,  her  figure  half  black,  and 
half  shining,  against  the  firelight.  Her  spectacles 
glinted  where  they  were  fastened  on  her  untidy  flannel 
waist.  Her  old  black  skirt  was  glossed  green  where 
the  fireshine  caught  in  its  folds.  The  gray  down  on 

176 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  177 

her  cheek  glistened  like  a  mist.  Separate  strands  of 
her  hair  were  threads  of  metal,  hot  and  bright  on 
her  head. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  May,  a  small  vague  figure 
across  the  room  in  the  white  bed.  May's  eyes,  with 
their  dilated  pupils,  were  quick  eve*n  in  the  shadow. 

Mrs.  Farley  fumbled  her  hands  painfully  along  the 
folds  of  her  skirt.  "Go  to  sleep !  Go  to  sleep,  child !" 
she  said  in  a  voice  harsh  with  fear. 

Day  was  breaking.  Around  the  dark  edges  of  the 
lowered  shades,  livid  squares  of  light  were  widening 
against  the  wall. 

With  a  stealthy  gesture,  May  sunk  into  the  bed- 
clothes again  and  pulled  the  cold  sheet  up  to  her  chin, 
but  her  eyes,  alive  in  her  pale  little  face  over  the  edge 
of  the  quilt,  followed  her  grandmother's  movements 
covertly. 

Mrs.  Farley  thought  she  heard  a  sound  from  the  crib, 
and  went  swiftly  to  it. 

May,  quivering  with  eagerness,  sat  up  again. 
"What's  that,  Grandmother?" 

Mrs.  Farley  bent  lower  over  the  crib.  Her  voice 
choked.  "That's  your  new  little  brother,"  she  said. 

May,  delighted  by  the  excitement  and  puzzled  and 
interested  by  her  grandmother's  tears,  threw  the  covers 
away  from  her,  and,  clutching  the  rail  at  the  side  of 
the  bed,  pulled  herself  to  her  naked  knees  so  that  she 
could  look.  "I  want  to  see,  Grandma  Farley!"  she 
begged.  "I  want  to  get  out."  She  had  already  slipped 
one  bare  leg  over  the  bar  and  was  half  way  to  the  floor. 

"Get  back  into  bed  this  instant,  May!    You'll  take 


178  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

cold  and  wake  Bobby  too."  Mrs.  Farley  lifted  the 
baby,  all  wrapped  in  blankets,  and  carried  it  to  May's 
bedside. 

Without  sympathy,  and  with  the  impersonal  curi- 
osity of  a  child,  the  little  girl  stared  at  the  baby's  small 
sharp  features  and  dull  bluish,  unrecognizing  eyes. 
She  was  accustomed  in  examining  picture  books  to  see 
fat  children  with  round  faces,  and  she  thought  it  did 
not  resemble  a  baby. 

"Whose  is  it?  Is  it  Mamma's  ?"  she  asked.  "Where 
did  she  get  it  ?  Can  I  touch  it  ?"  She  laid  a  small  finger 
on  the  bundle,  then  drew  back  with  a  shudder  of  aliena- 
tion. "How  can  you  bear  to  touch  it,  Grandma?" 

Mrs.  Farley  could  not  speak.  She  began  to  cry 
again. 

An  involuntary  half-smile  of  astonishment  parted 
May's  lips  when  she  saw  the  small  tears  gather  in  the 
dirty  corners  of  her  grandmother's  eyes  and  slip  along 
the  flaccid  shriveled  cheeks  and  finally  fall  in  gray  spots 
of  moisture  on  the  cream-colored  flannel  in  which  the 
baby  was  wrapped. 

Mrs.  Farley  felt  that  she  should  tell  May  something 
about  her  mother,  but  did  not  know  how  to  begin.  "Go 
to  sleep.  You'll  wake  Bobby.  I'll  show  you  the  baby 
in  the  morning." 

"It's  morning  already,"  May  pointed  out  after  a 
minute. 

Mrs.  Farley,  moving  away  with  averted  face,  glanced 
at  the  gray  luminousness  which  stole  under  the  shade 
and  blanched  the  wainscot.  "No  matter  if  it  is,"  she 
said.  "It's  not  morning  for  you.  Go  to  sleep.'* 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  179 

Hesitating,  May  clung  to  the  bedrail ;  but  she  slipped 
at  last  into  the  sheet.  Soon  after,  in  spite  of  her  re- 
sistance, she  had  fallen  asleep  again,  and  lay,  breathing 
deeply  and  evenly,  with  her  lips  parted  in  dreaming 
interest. 


Laurence  went  out  of  the  death  chamber  into  the 
hall,  where  the  gray  light  of  the  cold  spring  morning 
came  dimly  from  the  street  through  the  transom.  A 
milk  cart  stopped  outside.  He  could  hear  the  clatter 
of  tins,  as  it  came  to  a  halt,  and  the  hurrying  feet  of 
the  driver  running  down  the  area  steps  and  up  again. 
Bottles  were  jostled  together  with  a  dull  clink.  The 
man  outside  whistled.  The  horse's  shoes  chimed  on  the 
cold  hard  street,  and  the  milk  wagon  rumbled  away, 
the  noises  blurring  in  distance. 

There  were  more  footsteps,  dull,  methodic.  One  man 
called  to  another.  There  was  a  musical  shiver  of 
breaking  glass,  curses  uttered  in  a  hoarse  male  voice, 
and  the  flat  thud  of  running  feet. 

Laurence  opened  the  front  door  and  looked  into  the 
street.  Above  the  dull  housetops  were  stone  blue  clouds. 
The  arc  light  burning  over  the  pavement  opposite  was 
like  a  ball  of  pale  unraveling  silk.  On  the  windows  of 
the  houses  with  their  lowered  blinds,  the  sunless  day 
was  reflected  in  livid  brightness. 

He  could  not  bear  the  light  and  he  turned  back  into 
the  house  into  the  darkened  parlor,  where  the  leaves  of 
plants  on  the  stand  in  the  corner  seemed  to  burn  with 


180  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

a  bluish  fire.  He  could  see  the  begonia  leaves  like  pink 
hairy  flesh,  and  the  gray  fur  of  fern  fronds. 

The  long  pier  glass  in  darkness  was  like  black  silver. 
It  was  as  though  he  had  never  seen  himself  move  form- 
lessly  forward  on  its  surface.  He  was  cold.  He  could 
not  stay  there. 

Softly  and  quickly,  he  went  out  into  the  hall  and 
mounted  the  stairs  again.  He  put  his  hand  on  the 
knob  of  the  bedroom  door  and  fancied  that  it  swung 
inward  of  itself. 

Dr.  Beach  had  gone,  but  the  nurse  was  still  in  the 
room.  She  had  her  back  turned  to  the  door  and  was 
folding  up  some  clothes.  The  gas  flame  had  been  ex- 
tinguished. The  window  curtains  were  open.  Objects 
in  the  room  were  plainly  visible,  throwing  no  anchor- 
age of  shadow  about  them. 

Laurence  went  toward  the  bed.  He  set  his  feet  down 
carefully  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  being  heard. 

When  he  reached  Her,  he  saw  She  had  not  moved. 
She  would  never  move.  A  sob  of  agony  and  relief  shook 
him  from  head  to  foot. 

The  nurse  coughed  discreetly.  Scarcely  aware  of  it, 
he  heard  her  starched  dress  rustle  and  her  shoes  creak 
as  she  tiptoed  out. 

He  knelt  down  by  the  bed.  The  last  hour  of  Winnie's 
suffering  was  yet  real  and  terrible  to  him. 

He  pulled  the  sheet  back  from  Her  face.  She  had  not 
moved.  She  was  dead. 

Stillness  revolved  about  him  in  eternal  motion. 

Winnie  lay  in  the  center  of  quickness.      She  was 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  181 

dead.  He  wanted  to  rush  out  of  the  circle  filled  with 
Her  warmth. 

The  stillness  revolved  again. 

She  held  Her  pain  shut  in  Her.  He  would  never 
know  it  again. 

He  hated  to  leave  the  room  where  the  silence  was 
quick.  Out  of  the  silence  his  pain  was  waiting  to  grasp 
him. 

About  Winnie  the  house  revolved  in  wider  and  wider 
circles  at  the  edge  of  which  Her  quickness  died  away. 

He  threw  himself  into  the  vortex  of  Her  terrific  quiet. 
It  caught  him  and  twisted  him  and  bore  him  to  its 
center. 

He  was  dead.  He  would  never  live  again.  He  be- 
came one  with  the  endless  word.  She  was  timeless  in 
the  bed  in  silence. 


When  Laurence  stumbled  into  the  hall  he  came  upon 
his  father. 

"Well,  Son,  I  don't  know  what  to  say !  My  God,  I 
don't  know  what  to  say."  Mr.  Farley  turned  away, 
sobbing. 

Laurence  was  numbed  to  the  sound  of  his  father's 
words,  and  waited  for  the  echo  of  silence  to  die  away. 

They  walked  downstairs  and  into  the  living-room. 
Alice  was  in  the  room  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Price  were 
both  there  seated  near  a  window.  It  was  like  a  holi- 
day— Christmas  or  Easter — to  see  the  family  together 
in  the  early  morning  in  the  artificial  illumination. 


182  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Laurence  covered  his  face.  Alice  went  over  to  him 
and  patted  his  shoulder. 

"You  must  eat  some  breakfast,  Laurie/' 

The  kindness  in  her  voice  hurt  him.  He  wanted  to 
go  away.  But  she  took  his  hand  and  he  was  too  sick 
to  rebel  against  her,  so  he  let  her  lead  him  forward 
through  the  portieres  into  the  next  room  where  the 
table  was  set. 

May  and  Bobby  had  been  dressed  early  and  seated 
at  table,  for  they  were  going  for  the  day  to  a  neigh- 
bor's house.  Over  her  brown  serge  dress  that  was  be- 
coming too  short  and  tight,  May  wore  a  fancy  clean 
white  apron.  The  bow  on  her  hair  was  of  her  best  red 
ribbon,  but  it  was  already  half  untied  and  dangled  in 
a  huge  loop  above  one  of  her  ears.  Bobby,  too,  was 
in  a  new  blue  woolen  blouse.  He  was  bibless  and  the 
porridge  he  was  eating  trickled,  in  gluey  gray-white 
drops  of  milk  and  half -dissolved  sugar,  over  his  chin 
and  down  his  dickey. 

He  could  not  get  it  out  of  his  head  that  this  was  a 
celebration,  and  several  times  he  had  asked  Aunt  Alice 
where  the  presents  were. 

May  was  discreet  enough  to  attend  to  her  food,  but 
she  ate  slowly  and  methodically,  and  was  in  no  hurry 
to  leave.  When  she  saw  her  father  led  in  by  Aunt  Alice 
as  if  he  were  a  blind  man,  it  seemed  a  part  of  the 
general  strangeness  and  excitement. 

May  understood  that  there  was  something  wrong 
with  her  mother.  Yet  her  information  was  too  meager 
to  project  anything  but  vague  images  in  her  mind.  At 
one  moment  the  unexpectedness  of  it  all  elated  her. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  183 

Her  eyes  shone.  She  shuddered  with  happiness,  and 
her  drawers  were  wet.  But  the  exaltation,  produced  by 
the  sense  of  mystery,  was  followed  by  depression. 
Tears  gathered  among  her  lashes  and  rolled  down  her 
cheeks  as  she  realized  that  her  father  was  crying  too. 

After  the  children  had  been  sent  away,  the  embalmer 
arrived  and  went  upstairs,  and  when  the  wreath  was 
hung  on  the  door  it  seemed  almost  as  if  Winnie  had  died 
again. 

The  house  now  stood  out  from  other  houses.  What 
the  family  had  wanted  to  conceal  like  a  shame  was  re- 
vealed to  the  world.  Their  grief  no  longer  belonged 
to  themselves.  When  they  went  to  a  window  and  looked 
out  their  differentness  separated  them  infinitely  from 
the  people  in  the  street.  They  were  crushed  by  their 
consciousness  of  separateness. 

The  day  was  interminable. 

Toward  evening,  in  the  twilight,  they  sat  in  the  liv- 
ing-room huddled  in  their  chairs.  Relaxed  by  emotion, 
they  looked  drunk.  Their  gestures,  as  they  shifted  their 
postures  limply,  were  the  gestures  of  debauch.  With 
bleered  vague  eyes,  they  peered  spiritlessly  at  one  an- 
other out  of  the  shadows. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  and  there  was  only  a  chilly 
whiteness  in  the  center  of  the  room  and  in  front  of  the 
windows.  In  the  gloom,  the  drunken  people  floated  in 
their  senseless  grief  like  fish.  They  stirred  languidly, 
or  they  got  up,  took  some  aimless  steps,  and  resumed 
their  places. 

No  one  suggested  a  light.  They  were  ashamed  of 
their  exhaustion  and  their  dry  eyes.  In  terror  of  not 


184.  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

caring  enough,  they  began  to  talk,  dwelling  on  harry- 
ing details  in  order  to  wring  from  each  other  the  stimu- 
lus which  would  draw  a  little  moisture  from  their  dry 
lids. 

Really,  they  were  sick  with  fatigue.  They  wanted  to 
sleep.  They  made  themselves  tense  against  weariness. 
They  did  not  know  whether,  if  they  made  a  light, 
brightness  would  rouse  them  from  their  disgraceful 
torpor,  or  merely  reveal  their  plight. 

Mr.  Farley,  who  had  been  in  the  death  chamber, 
came  downstairs,  and  when  he  stumbled  over  a  stool  by 
the  door  of  the  room  he  lit  the  gas.  Then  the  reddish 
glow  made  jack-o'-lanterns  of  their  swollen,  inflamed 
faces.  They  saw  each  other  and  found  that  they  could 
cry  again.  The  tears  came  peacefully  now,  without 
effort.  Their  strength  flowed  from  them  under  their 
lids.  Their  heads  floated  confusedly  above  the  bodies 
to  which  they  were  secured  by  their  attenuated  necks,  in 
which  they  were  conscious  of  the  nausea  and  indigestion 
of  weakness. 

The  contemplation  of  so  much  misery  left  Mr.  Far- 
ley as  weak  as  jelly.  But  in  the  very  completeness  of 
his  mental  and  physical  depletion  he  felt  relief. 

At  the  moment  when  he  descended  from  the  room 
where  the  dead  woman  lay  to  the  strange  twilight  in- 
habited by  her  sodden  family,  he  gave  up.  He  no  longer 
attempted  to  escape  from  his  vision  of  himself.  With 
a  feeling  of  luxury,  he  admitted  his  incapacity  for 
change.  He  was  brazen  in  his  inward  confession  of 
failure.  His  ideals  were  too  high.  They  could  never 
be  realized  in  this  life.  He  could  not  go  back.  He 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  185 

had  a  sense  of  utter  humiliation  and  failure,  yet,  at 
the  same  time,  was  subtly  grateful  for  his  degradation. 
The  fumes  of  fatigue  permitted  a  vague  indulgence  to 
his  self-contempt.  He  put  Helen  away  from  him  for- 
ever. Death  was  a  bitterness  and  a  peace. 


Alice  had  set  out  some  cold  meat  on  the  table  in  the 
dining-room,  but  no  one  thought  to  eat. 

From  somewhere  in  the  cold  a  fly  came  and  buzzed 
feebly  about  the  frayed  meat  on  the  big  sheep  bone 
that  lay  disconsolately  in  a  congealed  pool  of  amber- 
white  grease  in  the  middle  of  the  glossy  blue  dish. 

No  one  came  into  the  dining-room.  The  teapot,  cov- 
ered, at  first,  with  a  bloom  of  moisture,  grew  heavy,  and 
drops  of  water  collected  at  its  base.  The  young  fly 
clung  to  the  huge  flayed  bone  of  the  dead  beast.  It 
crawled  on  moist,  quivering  legs  along  the  dry  and  flesh- 
less  parts,  only  to  slip  back  uncertainly  when  it  clutched 
at  the  fat. 

In  the  empty  dining-room  it  was  as  if  the  silence  had 
stripped  the  burned  flesh  from  the  dead  bone.  The  gas 
light  shone,  very  bright  on  the  stupidity  of  the  table 
at  which  no  one  sat.  The  tablecloth  was  white  and 
lustrous  from  the  iron.  The  high-backed  chairs  stood 
vacantly  about  the  vacant  meal,  the  dry,  highly  pol- 
ished tumblers,  and  the  clean-wiped  plates. 

The  coffin  was  on  a  table  in  the  parlor.  It  had  a 
movable  inside  which  was  pushed  up  so  that  the  shoul- 
ders and  head  of  the  corpse  protruded  above  the  box. 


186  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Stiffly,  yet  as  if  of  themselves,  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  the  corpse  uprose  from  the  sides  of  the  coffin.  The 
smooth,  strange  face,  like  the  face  of  a  wax  angel,  rose 
up  complaisantly  above  the  sides  of  the  box. 

The  German  woman  at  the  bakery,  who  was  out  of 
bed  with  a  child  ten  days  old,  had  come  to  act  as  wet- 
nurse  for  the  other  new-born  child.  In  the  nursery, 
opposite  the  death  chamber,  she  sat  pressing  the  in- 
fant's lips  to  the  stiff  brown  nipple  on  her  full  white 
breast. 

It  caught  the  nipple  weakly  and  hungrily,  but  it  did 
not  have  the  strength  to  keep  it.  The  brown  teat, 
sloppy  with  saliva,  fell  from  its  small  strained  mouth. 
The  baby  squeezed  its  thumbs  under  its  wrinkled  fingers. 
Its  hands  half  opened  and  shut.  Its  weak  eyes  did  not 
see  the  nipple  it  had  lost,  and  it  began  to  cry  fretfully, 
without  shedding  any  tears. 

The  stout  woman  had  a  sense  of  unusualness  and  im- 
propriety in  allowing  the  dead  woman's  baby  to  take 
her  breast,  but  she  overcame  the  feeling  before  she  per- 
mitted it  to  become  plain  to  herself.  With  firm  fingers 
she  pressed  the  stiff  nipple  between  the  slobbering  lips. 
The  baby  scratched  her  delicate  skin  with  its  soft  nails. 
Its  hands  clutched  in  the  agony  of  its  satisfaction.  It 
pressed  and  grappled  with  her  resilient  breast,  and  left 
there  faint  red  marks  of  delight  and  rage. 

It  was  happy.  It  sucked  with  fierce  unseeing  con- 
tent. Its  sightless  eyes  stared  angrily.  Its  cheeks  were 
drawn  in  and  relaxed  unceasingly. 

When  the  breast  slipped  out  again,  it  despaired.  Its 
furry  forehead  wrinkled  above  its  wizened  face.  Its 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  187 

opaque  eyes  grew  sharp  and  merciless  with  baffled  de- 
sire. Like  a  small  blind  beast  fumbling  the  air,  it 
moved  its  head  searchingly  from  side  to  side,  sucking. 

It  seemed  impossible  for  the  scrawny  and  emaciated 
child  to  satisfy  itself.  The  wom/in  took  the  breast 
away  and  the  infant  was  angry  once  more.  Its  eyes 
drew  up  out  of  sight  beneath  its  overhanging  lids.  Its 
whole  body  writhed  in  protest.  It  was  a  healthy  child, 
the  woman  said,  because  on  the  second  day  it  could 
scream  like  that. 

By  and  by  it  grew  tired  of  its  rage  and  went  to  sleep. 
It  slept  with  its  lids  apart,  like  a  drunken  thing,  show- 
ing its  bleared  irises.  And,  monotonously,  vigorously, 
it  drew  the  air  in  and  out  of  its  mouth.  It  seemed  angry 
and  merciless  even  in  its  sleep. 


On  the  way  to  the  distant  cemetery,  Laurence  rode 
in  the  carriage  with  his  father.  Both  men  were  under 
the  illusion  that  the  carriage  remained  fixed  while  the 
confused  faces  in  the  streets  were  hurried  past  them 
like  bright  leaves  and  driftwood  torn  by  some  hidden 
stream. 

When  the  hearse  came  to  a  halt  near  the  new-made 
grove,  Mrs.  Price,  in  the  carriage  behind  them,  had  to 
be  aroused  from  a  stupor  and  assisted  to  her  feet.  Her 
knees  shook.  She  gazed  wildly  and  incredulously  about, 
and  when  they  were  lowering  the  coffin  into  the  hole,  she 
exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  reproach,  "Winnie!  My  God, 


188  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Winnie !"  as  if  she  expected  the  dead  woman  to  rise  in 
response  and  give  some  comforting  assurance. 

Laurence  refused  to  see  what  was  going  on.  He 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  bright  ground,  and  permitted 
himself  to  realize  nothing  more  than  that,  though  the 
March  day  was  fresh,  the  sun  was  warm  on  his  back. 

But  as  the  minister's  last  words  were  said,  Laurence 
felt  the  agitation  of  people  turning  away,  and  some- 
thing in  him  refused  to  reconcile  itself  to  the  irrev- 
ocable thing  which  had  occurred. 

Recognizing  no  one,  he  walked  aimlessly  apart  among 
strange  graves.  Those  who  regarded  him  found  in  him 
the  same  fascination  and  repugnance  which  had  per- 
vaded the  body  as  it  lay  in  the  coffin.  In  some  way  he 
seemed  to  belong  to  it. 


Among  the  untended  graves  stood  an  unpainted 
kiosk,  the  dusty  stair  that  led  to  it  yet  littered  with 
leaves  of  the  autumn  past.  It  was  a  meaningless  thing, 
empty,  like  the  words  on  the  tombstones — words  of 
which  the  earth  had  already  hidden  the  meaning. 

The  wind  blew  very  high  up  the  long  hillside  in  the 
cold,  still  sun.  It  shook  the  stiff,  glossy  blades  of  dry 
yellow  grass,  and  disturbed  the  small,  sharp  shadows 
that  laced  their  roots.  The  bare  trees  rocked  heavily 
from  the  earth,  and  swung  their  polished  branches  to- 
gether. 

On  one  grave  a  faded  cotton  flag  drooped  under  an 
iron  star.  By  another  was  a  wreath  of  tin  and  wax, 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  189 

white  roses  and  orange  blossoms,  soiled  and  spotted  with 
rust,  in  a  wooden  case  with  a  broken  glass  over  the 
top.  An  iron  bench  had  sunk  into  the  ground,  and  was 
fixed  there  with  a  leg  uplifted  in  an  attitude  of  resig- 
nation. Some  blue  glass  jars  were  filled  with  dried 
crocus  buds  and  the  greenish  ooze  of  the  rotting  stems. 

Above  the  hard  twinkling  slope  of  grass,  the  sky 
was  a  cold,  pure  blue.  Pine  trees,  tall  and  conical,  were 
flaming  satin,  dark  against  the  flat  white  burning  disk 
of  the  sun. 

In  a  shining  tree  the  white  sun  burnt  innocently,  like 
an  enormous  Christmas  candle.  There  was  happiness 
in  the  strong,  bitter  smell  of  the  pine  trees  warmed  by 
the  sun. 

The  light  that  floated  thin  between  their  branches 
was  sprayed  fine  from  the  circle  of  heat,  like  the  stiff, 
hot  hair  of  an  angel,  burning  harsh  and  glorious  as  it 
floated  from  a  halo.  The  wind  rushed  up  against  the 
trees  and  they  stirred  darkly  as  in  a  shining  sleep. 

The  Branches  swayed;  crossed  each  other;  and  fell 
.back. 

Among  the  graves  there  were  obelisks,  like  paralytic 
fingers  stripped  dry  to  the  bone,  pointing  up.  A  gera- 
nium in  a  pot  was  still  on  a  grave  like  a  red  glass  flame. 
Among  the  tombs  it  slept,  encased  in  brightness. 

A  fruit  tree  in  premature  bloom  was  shedding  its 
blighted  petals.  Heavily  the  tree,  weighted  with  white, 
shed  its  ripe  silence.  The  petals  fell,  and  mingled  with 
the  satin  flakes  of  light  on  the  trembling  grass. 

The  still  grave  posts  were  deep  in  silence.  The  si- 
lence was  asleep.  It  did  not  know  itself. 


190  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

Silence  crept  waist  high.  Breast  high.  Drowned  in 
itself. 

It  was  asleep. 

When  the  sun  sank,  out  from  the  copper-blue  night, 
from  the  horizon,  the  dark  trees  rolled  angrily.  The 
remote  stars  flashed  blue  sparks  like  a  paler  rage.  But 
infinitely  deep,  from  the  night  of  the  earth,  the  gray- 
white  tombstones  floated  up. 


Laurence  could  not  believe  in  death.  He  did  not 
know  it.  But  he  was  sick  with  death,  because  it  op- 
pressed his  unbelief.  He  wanted  to  take  it  into  himself 
and  understand  it. 

Yet  the  same  breath  which  desired  knowledge  was 
filled  with  protest.  He  wanted  to  get  away  from  the 
thing  which  crushed  him  with  its  unknown  being — 
crushed  him  in  the  blankness  of  the  still  sunshine  and 
the  cold  wind  above  the  damp,  new  grave. 

When  he  reached  home  after  the  funeral,  the  children 
had  come  back.  May  clung  about  her  father.  Because 
of  her  fear  of  him,  she  seemed  to  know  him  better  than 
others  knew  him.  For  her  own  sake  he  wanted  her  to 
hate  him,  to  keep  herself  separate  from  his  pity  of  her. 

He  felt  his  pity  for  others  in  him  like  a  rottenness. 
He  would  have  torn  the  sickness  out  of  his  flesh,  but 
it  was  through  him,  decaying  him.  His  blood  was 
dry. 

If  he  saw  anything  unworthy,  he  immediately  dis- 
covered its  weakness,  and  sheltered  it  with  his  con- 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  191 

tempt.  He  could  not  be  clean  and  strong  and  harsh 
for  himself.  That  was  why  he  could  fight  for  nothing 
that  he  wished;  because  his  enemies  were  inside  him, 
and  in  order  to  destroy  them  he  had  to  tear  and  torture 
himself.  If  the  sickness  in  him  had  been  his  own,  he 
could  have  cured  it ;  but  it  was  the  sickness  of  his  chil- 
dren, of  Alice,  of  his  father  and  mother. 

As  a  young  man  he  had  never  been  able  to  carry  a  de- 
cision into  effect,  since  he  could  never  clearly  distin- 
guish his  own  pains  from  the  pains  of  those  he  op- 
posed. As  a  boy,  his  pride  made  him  suffer  with  a  sense 
of  misunderstood  greatness.  Winnie  had  drunk  that 
suffering  out  of  him.  He  had  drained  himself  dry  that 
her  agony  might  be  rich.  » 

Winnie  had  drunk  his  want.  He  was  empty.  His 
heart  was  old. 

He  flung  his  children  away.  He  was  free.  But  free 
was  the  name  of  a  thing  he  had  lost.  While  Winnie 
lived  there  was  a  certain  vividness  in  his  fatigue.  His 
resentment  of  her  had  held  him  together. 

He  analyzed  the  family  and  told  himself  that  it  was 
a  monster  which  fed  on  pain.  It  had  grown  stronger 
while  Winnie  had  been  weak  and  sick.  It  was  yet 
stronger  now  that  she  was  dead. 

When  night  came  he  thought  of  Winnie,  who  had 
always  been  afraid  to  be  alone,  left  in  the  dark  and  the 
silence  and  the  wet  earth.  About  twelve  it  began  to 
rain.  She  was  more  still  out  there  because  of  the  rain. 

He  saw  the  plump,  stiff  body  happy  in  its  box.  The 
rain  softened  its  plumpness.  The  dead  woman  was  lost 
in  the  thick  night,  in  the  rain — always. 


192  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

The  night  said  nothing,  but  in  one  place,  far  off, 
where  the  grave  was,  the  night  became  bright  and  hor- 
rible. He  understood  the  night  where  it  came  from  the 
grave  in  the  darkness. 

The  dead  woman  stirred.  The  cold  was  bright  in 
the  whiteness  of  her  face.  Here  was  where  the  dark 
ended  in  itself. 

The  rain  fell  upon  her.  He  could  not  tear  her  from 
the  rain,  or  from  his  horror  of  her.  He  was  locked  in 
his  horror  of  her  as  in  a  perpetual  embrace. 

She  was  dead.  She  lived  in  him  endlessly.  Never 
could  he  be  delivered  except  into  greater  intimacy. 
Forever,  he  belonged  to  her ;  to  her  white  face  with  shut 
eyes,  to  its  passive  torture,  to  its  movelessness  against 
rain.  He  felt  already  the  day,  cold  like  this,  still  like 
this,  when  she  would  have  him  utterly.  Almost,  it 
seemed  that  he  remembered  something. 


One  evening  after  the  children  had  eaten,  Alice  said, 
"111  undress  the  kiddikins.  Is  it  time  for  the  baby's 
bottle,  Mamma?" 

Mrs.  Farley  wanted  to  give  the  baby  his  bottle,  but 
there  was  meat  burning  in  the  oven,  so  she  resigned  the 
office  to  Alice.  "If  he's  still  asleep,  don't  wake  him 
up." 

Alice  went  upstairs,  carrying  the  bottle  in  one  hand 
and  holding  Bobby's  fist  with  the  other.  May  came  be- 
hind* 

When  they  reached  the  nursery,  the  baby  seemed  so 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  193 

quiet  that  Alice  set  the  bottle  on  the  mantel  shelf  and 
began  to  undress  Bobby. 

It  was  summery  dusk  in  the  room.  Outside  the  win- 
dow the  city  melted  in  hyacinth  mist.  The  gold  lights 
in  the  houses  across  the  street  were  still  like  a  row  of 
crocuses.  Everything  else  seemed  to  be  shaken  in  the 
trembling  dusk.  The  room  quivered,  unreal. 

In  the  half  dark,  May  watched  Aunt  Alice. 

"Climb  into  bed,  Bobby." 

"He  didn't  say  his  prayers,  Aunt  Alice." 

"Well,  he  can  say  his  prayers  tomorrow  night.'* 

May  knew  that  she,  too,  would  not  be  allowed  to  say 
her  prayers.  Aunt  Alice  was  awful.  Aunt  Alice  in 
the  dark,  like  a  tower.  Prayers  seemed  an  incantation 
against  an  evil  which  Aunt  Alice  desired. 

"Can  you  undo  your  own  dress?" 

May  squirmed  and  bent  forward.  Her  hand  reached 
up  to  the  first  button. 

"Here!  At  that  rate  it  will  take  you  all  night!" 
Out  of  the  darkness  again,  Aunt  Alice's  hand,  heavy 
and  hot  and  sure.  She  clutched  May's  shoulder  and 
gave  it  a  little  shake.  "Wriggler !" 

The  clothes  slipped  off.  May  felt  her  nakedness 
piercing  the  dark. 

Suddenly  Aunt  Alice  caught  her  and  faced  her  about, 
naked  as  she  was. 

"What  makes  you  act  as  though  I  were  an  ogress, 
May?" 

Aunt  Alice's  hands  hurt.  May  was  no  longer  aware 
that  Aunt  Alice  existed  separate  from  the  dark.  It 
was  shadow  itself  that  bit  into  the  child's  flesh. 


194  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

"I — I  don't  know."  May  giggled.  Her  eyes  shone 
with  arrested  tears. 

"Did  I  ever  hurt  you?  Suppose  I  had  pinched  you 
— like  this !  Slapped  you !" 

Aunt  Alice's  hand  flew  out  of  the  dark  and  fastened 
itself,  alive  and  stinging,  on  May's  cheek.  It  was  a 
light  slap,  almost  in  play,  but  May  died  under  it. 
She  was  stupid  like  a  mirror.  She  sobbed  painlessly. 

"What  are  you  crying  for?  Cry-baby!  As  if  I 
had  really  hurt  you!" 

May  did  not  care  any  more;  so  she  went  on  crying. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself !  You'll  wake 
the  baby  up." 

May  cried. 

"Hush,  I  say!"  Alice  held  May  against  her  breast 
in  a  fierce,  unkind,  smothering  hug,  so  that  the  baby 
might  not  hear  her  cry. 

She  uncurled  May's  loose  fingers  and  laid  them 
against  her  breast  in  the  darkness.  She  wanted  May 
to  be  conscious  of  breasts  burning  and  unfolding  of 
themselves.  She  wanted  May  to  help  her  to  understand 
her  breasts. 

May  felt  Aunt  Alice  big  and  soft  under  her  palm. 
She  did  not  want  her.  She  had  no  name  for  the  feel 
of  her  beyond  the  consciousness  of  softness  which  she 
did  not  like. 

She  was  naked  and  chilled.  Her  palm  sunk  upon 
the  big  bosom  where  Aunt  Alice  pressed  it,  and  she 
shuddered  away  from  the  yielding  flesh.  She  did  not 
want  to  know  why  Aunt  Alice  was  like  that.  Why 
Aunt  Alice's  front  swelled  softly  thick  under  her  fin- 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  195 

gers.  Why  Aunt  Alice's  heart  beat  with  a  steady  and 
terrible  hammer. 

"Here!  Get  away  from  me  and  put  on  your  night- 
gown, you  silly  little  girl!" 

May  was  glad  to  be  freed  and  pulled  the  gown  on. 
Her  head  caught  in  the  fabric,  but  she  struggled 
through  until,  finally,  her  face  peeped  out — only  a 
blind  blur  of  face  in  the  dim  room. 

"Get  into  bed!" 

Aunt  Alice  sounded  sharp  and  commanding  again. 
May  felt,  more  than  ever,  she  was  unloved,  but,  re- 
membering the  feel  of  the  big  bosom,  was  glad. 

Free! 

May  scampered  across  the  cold,  bare  floor  on  her 
bare  feet.  She  braced  her  toes  in  the  rail  of  the  bed  and 
swung  herself  over.  Then  she  snuggled  down — quick! 

Alice  could  not  shake  off  the  sensation  she  had  had 
with  the  little  naked  girl  in  her  arms.  The  child's  small, 
thin  nakedness  was  like  a  knife.  Alice  wanted  the 
child's  nakedness  to  cut  her  heavy  flesh  into  feeling. 

She  went  over  to  the  crib.  In  the  dark,  she  could  feel 
the  baby  staring  up,  awake,  making  no  sound.  She 
turned  to  the  mantel  shelf  for  the  bottle  and  offered  it 
to  his  lips  which  she  could  barely  see.  His  small  hands 
touched  her  meaninglessly.  He  accepted  the  bottle. 
He  was  content.  She  could  hear  him  sucking. 

She  knelt  by  the  crib,  by  the  baby  that  ignored  her. 
She  gave  herself  to  it.  She  betrayed  it  sweetly. 

Oh,  baby! 

She  wept,  enjoying  her  shame.  She  wanted  to  put 
its  hands  in  her  breast,  its  lips  in  her  breast.  In  the 


196  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

dark  room  she  wanted  to  tear  off  her  clothes  to  give 
the  baby  her  nakedness. 

But  the  baby  could  not  take  her.  It  could  not  show 
her  herself.  In  time  it  would  give  the  light  of  pain  to 
some  one,  but  now  it  was  little  with  small  hands. 

Alice  could  not  bear  the  baby  any  more.  What  did 
she  want? 

She  went  out  of  the  nursery  and  into  her  own  room 
and  closed  the  door. 

What  did  she  want? 

She  began  to  pull  her  clothes  off.     First  her  blouse. 

Her  skin  prickled  with  chill.  The  darkness  was  thick 
about  her.  It  loved  her. 

Horace  Ridge. 

Her  clothes  slipped  off.  She  pulled  off  her  shoes 
and  stockings  and  the  floor  and  the  slick  matting  knew 
her  feet.  The  darkness  knew  her. 

Her  body  was  white  and  stiff  against  the  dark.  With 
a  sensual  agony  she  knew  how  ugly  she  was. 

Horace  Ridge. 

She  could  not  bear  his  name — his  pain. 

Through  the  door  she  could  hear  Laurence  and  her 
father  talking  as  they  passed  through  the  hall. 

Take  this  body  away  from  me.  I  do  not  know  it. 
I  can  no  longer  bear  the  company  of  this  unknown 
thing. 

She  lay  down  in  the  bed  and  pulled  the  sheets  up. 

Spring. 

If  Mamma  Farley  calls  me  to  dinner,  she  said  to  her- 
self, I  shall  be  sick. 

In  the  dark  street  a  boy  whistled.     She  heard  girls 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  197 

laugh.  Through  the  window  a  new-leafed  tree  over  the 
opposite  roof  moved  its  black  foliage  against  the  bloom 
of  the  sky,  milk-purple  clouds  streaked  with  rose.  A 
hard  moon,  thin  like  a  shell,  lay  up  there  glowing  in- 
side itself  with  a  cold  secret  light. 

Alice  felt  her  body  harsh  like  the  moon. 

He  did  not  love  me. 

They  make  me  ugly,  because  unmeaning. 

Beauty,  straight,  white,  tall  like  a  temple. 

You  cannot  be  beautiful  alone.  .  .  . 

I  open  my  heart.  I  take  the  world  to  my  heart.  I 
am  beauty. 

.  .  .  But  my  body  is  dark  in  the  temple* 


"Alice!" 

Alice  waited  a  moment,  smothering. 

I  shall  not  answer. 

"Alice!" 

Alice's  lips  against  the  crack  of  the  closed  door. 
"Yes,  Mamma.*' 

"Did  the  baby  drink  his  milk?" 

"Yes." 

"Dinner'll  get  cold." 

Alice  put  her  clothes  on,  feeling  as  though  she  had 
been  sick. 

Why  do  I  go? 

She  went  downstairs  and  into  the  dining-room,  feel- 
ing lost  In  the  glow  of  the  orange-colored  flame  that 
sputtered  above  the  table.  There  was  cream  tomato 


198  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

soup,  already  served,  a  thick  purplish-pink,  curdling  a 
little  in  the  sweated  plates. 

"Hello,  Alice." 

"Good  evening,  Alice."  Mr.  Farley  was  drinking  his 
soup  timidly,  and  without  enjoyment.  Surreptitiously, 
his  blunt  fingers  crumbled  atoms  of  a  crust.  He  did 
not  look  at  his  wife,  but  his  eyes  searched  the  faces  of 
his  children  warily. 

"Have  your  beef  rare,  Laurence?"  Mrs.  Farley 
asked. 

"Yes,"  Laurence  said  casually.  His  mother  always 
served  him  first.  He  stretched  his  legs  under  the  table. 
He  sat  heavily  in  his  chair  as  if  he  had  fallen  there. 
He  took  big  gulps  of  soup  and  tilted  his  dish.  Then 
he  began  to  wipe  butter  from  his  knife  on  a  ragged 
piece  of  half-chewed  bread.  There  was  a  kind  of  satis- 
faction of  disgust  in  all  he  did.  "I  hear  Ridge  is  dan- 
gerously ill,  Alice."  His  eyes  were  hard  with  curiosity, 
as  he  glanced  at  her,  but  not  unsympathetic. 

"Well?"  Alice  gave  him  a  combative  stare.  "If 
you're  threatening  to  express  any  satisfaction  about  it, 
please  keep  your  mouth  shut." 

"I  was  never  down  on  Ridge  personally.  He  has 
written  some  fool  books,  but  I  am  every  sorry  to  hear 
that  he  is  sick." 

"Fd  better  write  to  him  and  give  him  your  sym- 
pathy." 

"No  need  to  be  sarcastic,  Alice,"  Laurence  said. 

Mr.  Farley  coughed.  "In  spite  of  the  impractica- 
bility of  his  views,  I'm  sure  none  of  us  wish  Ridge  out 
of  the  way." 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  192 

Alice  frayed  the  edges  of  her  slice  of  beef  by  futile 
jabs  with  her  fork,  but  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind 
to  eat.  Suddenly  these  people  became  intolerable  to 
her.  She  rose  without  a  word,  and  walked  out  of  the 
room. 

They  stared  at  her  disappearing  back. 

"What's  the  matter,  Alice?"  Laurence  called.  He 
got  up,  glancing  at  his  mother.  "Shall  I  go  after 
her?" 

Mrs.  Farley  had  so  hardened,  in  her  determination  to 
keep  silence,  that  it  was  difficult  for  her  to  speak  of 
commonplace  matters.  "Leave  her  alone,"  she  said  in 
a  grating  voice. 

Laurence  shrugged  and  sat  down  again. 

"She  probably  feels  that  we  are  not  sympathetic  in 
regard  to  Mr.  Ridge,"  Mr.  Farley  said.  He  smiled 
painfully  and  apologetically. 

"No,  I  don't  think  we  are,"  said  Laurence  com- 
fortably. 

Mrs.  Farley  had  shut  herself  up  again. 

Alice  went  out  through  the  kitchen  and  stood  in  the 
back  yard.  It  was  foggy  close  to  the  earth.  The  street 
lamps  beyond  the  high  back  wall  diffused  their  bright- 
ness in  the  thickness  of  the  night  so  that  the  darkness 
seemed  atingle  with  a  whitish  blush. 

The  light  from  the  open  door  behind  her  streamed 
out  and  cut  the  darkness  with  a  wedge-shaped  blade. 
Where  it  fell,  the  grass  was  purple-blue  milk,  rich  and 
thick  with  color. 

Alice  walked  to  the  alley  gate,  and  fumbled  with  the 
cold  latch  until  she  had  opened  it.  Fog  lay  in  the  lamp- 


200  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

lit  alley  like  a  bright  breath.  Up  and  down  the  street 
beyond,  the  cold  roofs  were  heavy  on  the  solid  houses. 
Their  dead  finality  was  like  a  threat  against  the  vague 
and  living  dark. 

Alice  felt  as  though  she  were  rushing  out  of  herself 
like  an  unseen  storm. 

She  wanted  to  lose  her  body  in  the  dark. 

But,  at  the  end  of  the  alley,  people  were  passing. 
And  she  could  see  the  square,  turgid  as  a  river,  where 
lights  of  cabs  and  automobiles  floated,  trembled,  dis- 
appeared, and  reappeared  again.  She  was  in  terror  of 
them.  She  no  longer  wanted  to  be  known  to  herself. 

She  turned,  and  shut  the  gate,  and  ran  back  up  the 
walk  to  the  house. 

The  kitchen  was  vacant,  bare.  A  moth  spun  in  zig- 
zag near  the  quivering  gas  flame.  On  the  stove,  the 
pots  and  pans,  crusted  with  food,  leaned  together,  half 
upset.  There  was  white  oilcloth  on  the  table,  and  on 
the  floor  a  scrap  of  threadbare  red  carpet.  Bread  was 
making  in  a  covered  bowl  on  a  shelf  back  of  the  stove. 
The  baby's  clothes,  which  Mrs.  Farley  had  been  iron- 
ing, hung  in  a  corner  on  a  line.  On  a  chair  the  bread 
board  was  laid  out  with  a  heel  of  bread  and  a  large 
knife. 

Alice  picked  up  the  knife.  She  wanted  to  cleave  her 
vision  of  herself. 

But  she  must  cleave  it  surely.    She  was  afraid. 

She  dropped  the  knife,  and,  at  the  clatter,  almost  ran 
from  the  room. 

She  went  quickly  but  very  softly  up  the  creaking 
back  stairway.  Her  breath  was  choking  and  guilty. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  201 

She  remembered  where  Laurie  kept  his  pistol,  and  she 
passed  into  his  room  and  fumbled  in  the  bureau  drawer 
among  his  clothes. 

When  she  had  the  pistol  in  her  hand,  suddenly,  she 
felt  sure  of  herself. 

She  did  not  want  to  do  it  now.    Not  that  night. 

She  was  ashamed  of  having  left  the  dining-room,  and 
decided  to  go  downstairs  once  more. 

Before  she  went,  she  carried  the  pistol  to  her  room 
and  hid  it. 

She  felt  calm.  For  the  first  time,  it  seemed  as  if  her 
whole  body  was  hers,  as  in  a  love  embrace.  She  was 
not  afraid  of  understanding  it.  She  rested  in  relief, 
in  intimacy  with  herself.  Nothing  separated  her  from 
herself. 


Alice  threw  a  gray  woolen  bathrobe  about  her  over 
her  nightgown,  and  went  downstairs  to  get  the  morning 
paper. 

Sunlight  came  over  the  transom  of  the  street  door 
and  blue  motes  floated  down  a  spreading  ladder  of  light. 
The  light  and  the  whirling  motes  sank  into  the  soft 
dingy  nap  of  the  carpet  as  into  a  vortex.  There  was 
a  deep  spot  of  radiance,  putty  colored,  like  a  pool  of 
dust,  still  in  the  gloom. 

Alice  opened  the  door  and  took  the  paper  in. 

As  she  carried  it  upstairs,  the  steps  creaked  under 
her  short,  broad,  bare  feet. 


202  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

She  went  into  her  room.  The  folded  paper  was  slick 
and  cold.  It  rattled  as  she  opened  it. 

Her  eyes  ran  over  the  columns  and  the  gray  print 
seemed  to  shift  and  dance  and  come  together  like  the 
broken  figures  in  a  kaleidoscope. 

Horace  Ridge  was  dead.  .  .  .  She  laid  the  paper  on 
the  bed. 

The  paper  seemed  a  strange  thing.  The  room,  the 
bed,  the  chairs,  were  words.  What  she  knew  had  no 
word. 

She  felt  exalted — almost  happy. 

She  dressed,  and  put  on  her  hat,  and  placed  Laurie's 
pistol  in  her  bag.  When  she  shut  the  pistol  in  the  bag 
she  had  a  foolish  feeling  that  she  was  doing  something 
irrelevant,  but  her  reason  told  her  that  she  had  to  have 
it. 

When  she  opened  the  front  door  a  second  time,  she 
knew  that  Mamma  Farley  was  up  because  the  milk 
bottle  had  been  taken  in. 

The  street  had  been  washed,  and  smelt  sweet.  A 
child  trundled  a  baby  carriage  up  and  down  the  block. 
The  carriage  went  through  the  wet  and  left  gray,  glis- 
tening tracks  where  the  concrete  had  already  dried. 
Some  negro  workmen  in  huge  clumsy  coats  and  bulging- 
toed  shoes  went  by. 

Alice  closed  the  door  softly  behind  her.  She  had  a 
vague  idea  that  she  would  go  to  the  cemetery  where 
Winnie  was  buried.  She  would  take  the  train  a  short 
distance  and  walk  the  rest  of  the  way. 

She  reached  the  station.  It  was  full  of  stopped 
clocks  marking  the  hours  of  appointed  departures. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  203 

The  stopped  clocks  and  the  stir  of  people  in  the  electric- 
lighted  shed  made  one  feel  that  the  world  had  stopped. 
The  motionless  agitation  reminded  one  of  the  restless 
stillness  of  the  dead. 

It  was  very  dirty.  An  employee  in  a  blue  denim 
jacket  pushed  a  trash  receiver  along  the  platform  and 
carelessly  swept  up  some  piles  of  fruit  peel  and  cigarette 
stubs,  and  smeared  over  places  where  people  had  spit. 

Alice  walked  through  the  gate  and  out  to  the  track. 
Sunshine  came  through  the  roof  of  the  shed  and  burned 
the  cinders  like  black  diamonds.  The  atmosphere  had 
a  palpable  texture  and  was  acrid  with  smoke.  An  en- 
gine rushed  down  upon  her,  steaming  and  shining.  The 
red  cars  were  covered  with  a  yellow-gray  film  of  dust 
that  made  them  orange  bright.  The  windows  glit- 
tered. 

Alice  climbed  into  the  long  car  filled  with  grimy, 
green  plush  seats,  and  sat  down  by  a  window  that  was 
smeared  along  the  ledge  with  cinders.  People  came  in. 
Girls,  men.  A  woman  with  a  crying  baby.  Their  faces, 
too,  looked  wan  and  orange  in  the  bright  clear  morning 
sunlight. 

The  train  started.  Feeling  it  move,  Alice  was  ter- 
rified. It  seemed  to  her  that  already  something  had 
begun  which  she  could  not  control.  It  was  as  though 
the  train  were  carrying  her  out  of  herself. 

Fields  swept  by.  There  was  a  marsh  where  the  water 
twinkled  with  a  moving  shudder  among  the  still  reeds. 
Then  came  an  aqueduct.  On  a  hill  were  red  brick 
houses  set  with  shimmering  glass,  and  above  the  cold 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

roofs  the  raw  green  of  fresh  leaves  against  the  cold 
pure  blue  of  the  morning  sky. 

A  station  with  a  neat  park  about  it.  Another  sta- 
tion. 

Alice  rose  and  swayed  forward  down  the  aisle  of  the 
moving  train.  At  the  next  stop  she  got  out. 

It  was  lonely.  The  station  house  was  a  little 
deserted  brick  building  of  only  one  room.  Alice  walked 
along  the  dusty  road  between  the  wet  bright  fields.  It 
was  going  to  rain.  The  sky  was  clotted  with  cloud. 
Through  the  vapors  the  illumined  shadows  of  the  sun's 
rays  were  outspread,  fan-shaped,  like  shadowy  fingers 
of  fire. 

By  itself,  close  to  the  road,  was  a  whitewashed 
wooden  church,  and  a  bush  with  pagan-red  leaves  burnt 
up  against  it  in  beauty  and  derision.  Alice  felt,  all  at 
once,  that  she  could  go  no  further.  She  took  out  the 
pistol. 

She  looked  all  about  her.  She  was  suddenly  ashamed. 
Feeling  as  though  she  were  playing  a  dangerous  game, 
she  held  the  pistol  to  her  breast.  She  wanted  the  pistol 
to  go  off  but  she  was  afraid  to  pull  the  trigger. 

She  tried  the  cold  ring  of  metal  against  her  temple. 

She  felt  herself  ridiculous.  Vainly  she  attempted 
to  recall  Winnie  in  the  coffin,  horrible  and  gone  for- 
ever. 

She  sat  down  limply  on  a  grass  bank  by  the  roadside. 
The  gray,  motionless  foliage  of  the  trees  grew  thick  and 
cumulus  against  the  rainy  sky.  In  her  lax  hand  she 
held  the  pistol,  stupid  pistol  which  could  no  longer 
convince  her  of  its  purpose.  It  lay  inertly  on  her  palm 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  205 

that  rested  among  the  long  gray  grasses  brushed  flat 
to  the  earth  with  their  dull  crystal  weight  of  dew. 

Death. 

She  kept  repeating  the  bright  word  to  herself.  She 
was  dead.  She  could  not  believe  in  death. 

She  stood  up  and  shook  her  skirts  and  put  the  pistol 
in  the  bag. 

She  felt  stupid  and  sick.  Her  boots  were  all  over 
dust  and  burrs  clung  to  her  petticoats.  She  hardly  saw 
what  was  around  her.  She  had  never  felt  such  heaviness 
in  her  life. 

She  walked  back  and  sat  down  in  the  dirty  little  wait- 
ing-room until  a  train  should  come.  Already  she 
fretted  against  herself.  She  did  not  believe  in  death. 
She  could  not  hurt  herself  enough.  She  felt  herself 
grow  mean  and  hard  and  withered  in  her  unbelief. 

She  went  back. 


PART  V 

LAURENCE  felt  cleaner  and  happier  in  his  attitude 
toward  Winnie  than  he  had  ever  been  able  to  feel 
when  she  was  alive.  He  did  not  go  to  the  cemetery 
very  often,  but  he  saw  to  it  that  there  were  flowers 
planted  in  the  plot,  and  that  the  place  was  well  cared 
for. 

He  was  cold  and  still  inside  himself.  His  soul  had 
been  turned  to  iron.  And  he  weighed  carefully  in  the 
scales  of  justice  what  had  been  done  by  her  and  what  by 
him.  He  refused  to  pity  her  or  himself. 

But  this  could  not  last.  His  justice  began  to  live 
and  to  ache  with  the  pain  of  its  own  decisions.  Then 
he  threw  it  all  away.  It  was  only  when  he  allowed  him- 
self to  despise  Winnie  thoroughly  that  he  could  love 
her.  He  would  not  be  killed  with  remorse. 

His  children  were  his  greatest  pain.  He  was  so  close 
to  Bobby  that  his  pride  in  the  child  was  only  a  hurt. 
Laurence  was  harsh  with  the  child,  and  before  strangers 
did  nothing  but  find  fault. 

One  day  Bobby  dropped  his  toy  engine  out  of  the 
living-room  window,  and  when  it  fell  in  the  street  a  bad 
boy  ran  off  with  it.  Bobby  came  crying  to  his  father, 
but  Laurence  would  give  no  sympathy. 

"If  May  cried  like  that  nobody  would  be  surprised," 

206 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  207 

Laurence  said.  "Why  didn't  you  go  out  and  make  the 
boy  give  it  back?" 

"He  wouldn't  div  it  back !  He  wanted  it  1"  Bobby 
bored  his  scrubby  fists  into  his  streaming  eyes.  His 
sobs  were  futile  and  rebellious. 

"Go  out  and  take  it  away  from  him.  Next  time  you 
let  some  little  ragamuffin  in  the  street  run  off  with  your 
toys,  don't  come  to  me  about  it.  May  would  probably 
let  anybody,  that  wanted  to,  run  off  with  the  dearest 
thing  that  she  possessed,  but  that's  no  excuse  for  you," 

Bobby  was  so  angry  that  for  a  moment  he  forgot  to 
cry.  He  did  not  understand  his  father's  cross  words, 
but  they  were  not  what  he  wanted  and  he  hated  them. 

Unmoved  in  her  humility,  May  heard  herself  depre- 
cated. She  accepted  contempt  as  the  poor  take  dirt. 
Her  father's  tolerant  disapproval  lay  on  her  ugliness, 
but  she  could  not  think  how  she  would  be  without  it. 

And  yet  he  never  scolded  her.  When  her  grand- 
mother was  provoked  with  her  he  only  said,  "Leave  her 
alone.  You  can't  change  her."  And  he  always  petted 
her.  But  May  knew  wordlessly  that  he  was  only  kind 
to  her.  She  was  humble. 

Something  inside  her  died  faintly.  It  was  like  a 
death  at  the  end  of  a  sickness,  a  relief  which  she  dimly 
felt  as  defeat. 

Yet  she  was  fond  of  her  father.  She  was  glad  he 
did  not  scold  her.  She  would  run  to  meet  him  when  he 
came  home  from  work  and  cling  delightedly  with  her 
little  claws  to  his  strong  small  hands.  Mostly  she  was 
unaware  of  the  tightening  and  stiffening  of  his  wrist 
and  of  his  readiness  to  loose  her  when  she  let  her  palm 


208  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

slip  from  his.  She  was  even  oblivious  to  the  contrast 
presented  by  the  spontaneity  of  his  brusque  affection 
for  Bobby.  It  was  only  now  and  then,  as  by  some  un- 
named sixth  sense,  she  knew  that  he  was  not  wanting 
her  touch.  Then  she  would  draw  back,  bewildered  and 
ashamed  of  herself,  but  neither  sad  nor  angry,  and 
would  find  herself  in  her  stupidity  weltering  in  that 
same  pitch-b  'ght  shadow  which  was  always  on  her 
soul  whether  he  forgot  it  or  not. 

However,  L  he  was  willing  to  forgive  her,  if  he  felt 
contrite  for  wh«,t  he  had  shown,  and  held  out  his  hand 
to  frer,  her  heart  immediately  lifted.  She  was  up  above 
herself  in  the  sure  definite  outlines  of  his  world,  and  she 
was  glad.  She  clapped  her  hands  and  danced.  There 
was  not  a  spark  of  jealousy  or  reproach  in  her  too 
yielding  nature. 

Laurence,  half  conceaHng  it  from  himself,  despised 
her  subconscious  forgiveness.  But,  since  he  could  do 
nothing  to  improve  his  i  dation  with  her,  he  was  very 
generous  with  candy  and  sweets  and  playthings. 

The  baby  could  sit  up  now,  propped  against  pillows. 
It  was  fat  and  well.  It  had  pallid  skin  and  red  blond 
hair.  Its  heavy  cheeks  hung  forward  and  between  them 
was  sunk  its  droll,  loose  mouth,  very  red  and  wet.  Its 
very  blue  eyes  conveyed  neither  pleasure,  surprise,  nor 
recognition  as  yet,  but  it  showed  anger,  and  even  de- 
light, with  its  hands  and  arms  and  its  body,  that  was 
long  with  fat  bowed  legs.  It  liked  best  to  sit  in  the 
bath,  its  weak  back  supported  by  its  grandmother's 
hand,  and  strike  the  clear  green  surface  of  the  water 
with  its  stiff  outspread  palm. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  209 

Laurence  never,  in  his  heart,  admitted  a  relation  with 
the  baby.  The  child  disconcerted  him.  He  was 
ashamed  of  his  intimacy  with  it,  and  that  it  took  him 
for  granted. 

When  he  leaned  toward  it,  it  held  out  its  fat  arms 
with  their  creased  wrists,  and  went  to  him.  It  sat  un- 
steadily on  his  knee.  The  blond  hair  on  its  head  was 
furry  and  lustrous  and  grew  down  the  flat  length  of 
its  skull  at  the  back  into  the  thick  fold  of  its  neck.  As 
it  moved  its  body  its  head  bobbled  as  though  it  were 
about  to  topple  off.  When  Laurence  touched  the  baby's 
delicate  skin  he  found  it  always  damp  with  a  cold 
fragrant  sweat,  and  if  he  pressed  the  flesh  it  mottled 
with  color,  like  a  bruise. 

With  an  eager,  half-directed  gesture,  it  would  reach 
out  and  clutch  his  watch  chain.  It  liked  to  jerk  and 
dangle  the  chain.  Sometimes  Laurence  teased  it  and  it 
fretted. 

Laurence  said  that  the  baby  was  stupid. 

"Of  course  he  can't  know  you!  He's  only  four 
months  old!"  Mrs.  Farley  defended  indignantly. 

Laurence  sentimentalized  his  mother's  devotion  to  the 
baby,  but  that  did  not  alter  his  own  reaction.  The 
child  made  no  appeal  to  him.  He  gave  it  back  to  the 
grandmother.  He  did  not  want  it  near  him  for  long 
at  a  time. 

Occasionally  when  he  leaned  over  the  carriage  and 
let  its  fingers  stray  through  his  stiff,  gray-sprinkled 
hair,  he  lost  himself  in  the  feeble  touch  of  its  hands. 
It  knew  nothing.  It  did  not  care.  It  was  almost  as  if 
it  loved  him  without  knowing  him,  and  somehow  he 


310  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

wanted  to  be  loved  like  that.  It  relieved  him  of  him- 
self. 

"Eh,  you  little  beggar !"  he  would  exclaim,  flounder- 
ing with  the  foolish  word,  and  he  would  shake  its  clutch- 
ing finger  roughly. 

As  the  baby  stared  at  him,  it  made  a  happy  sound. 
Its  soul,  sweet  and  a  little  blank,  lay  on  the  surface  of 
its  eyes,  and  there  was  something  awesome  in  its  stupid 
naked  little  looks,  among  the  grown  people  who  had 
forgotten  how  to  be  naked  like  that  even  with  them- 
selves. 

Laurence  flushed  and  his  eyes  dimmed  with  emotion. 
The  softness  and  helplessness  of  the  baby  took  his  male 
self.  He  wanted  to  do  something  for  it.  He  could  not 
even  buy  it  a  sweet. 

"Poor  little  thing !  Poor  little  thing !"  he  murmured 
to  himself.  However,  the  definiteness  of  his  responsi- 
bility toward  it  was  a  relief  to  him  in  the  unsettled  state 
of  his  life. 


It  was  five  months  after  Winnie's  death  before  Lau- 
rence began  frankly  to  consider  his  freedom  and  what 
he  should  do  with  it.  It  came  over  him  suddenly  and 
he  knew  that  he  must  have  been  thinking  of  it  before 
without  having  realized  it. 

It  made  him  feel  unreal  and  as  if  he  did  not  even 
belong  to  himself  any  more. 

The  children  had  his  mother  and  Winnie's  parents, 
and  required  no  sacrifice  of  him.  He  tried  to  stir  him- 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

self  to  rebel  against  the  children.  He  might  go  abroad 
and  leave  them  and  do  some  of  the  things  which  had 
been  impossible  before. 

He  could  not  do  it.  He  did  not  want  to  enough. 
His  disgust  with  himself  gave  him  a  sort  of  peace.  He 
flowed  out  of  himself  in  his  despair,  like  a  thing  too 
full  that  has  been  relieved.  His  spirit  was  sodden. 
There  was  nothing  he  wanted.  Nothing  he  wanted  to 
do. 

And  yet  he  played  with  the  idea  of  departing  from 
his  present  life.  He  talked  vaguely  about  himself  in 
a  way  that  disturbed  Mrs.  Farley's  secretly  growing 
peace  of  mind.  She  gave  him  side  glances  but  she  did 
not  dare  to  show  openly  that  there  was  anything  to 
fear. 

Laurence  deliberately  allowed  his  dress  to  become 
more  and  more  untidy.  When  he  met  a  woman  in  a  bus 
or  a  car  he  was  consciously  impolite.  Then  all  at  once 
he  saw  himself  inwardly  and  knew  that  women  were 
troubling  him,  that  he  had  not  actually  eliminated  them 
in  his  desires. 

So  he  went  one  day  and  found  a  prostitute  and,  as 
if  it  were  to  slay  something  in  himself,  let  her  take  him 
to  her  room. 

The  experience  did  nothing  for  him.  He  came  away 
feeling  sore  and  beaten.  He  resented  women.  He  was 
restless.  Some  unadmitted  thing  wanted  its  own  in  his 
life. 

To  his  father  and  mother  he  began  to  talk  more 
than  ever  about  going  to  Europe. 

Mrs.  Farley  never  rebuked  him  when  he  talked  of 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

leaving  her,  but  her  mouth  drew  into  a  pucker  and  he 
could  see  that  she  cried. 

He  never  gave  her  any  comfort  when  she  did  this,  but 
after  he  left  her  it  was  as  though  he  had  been  through 
an  illness  which  had  taken  his  strength.  Her  tears  had 
drained  his  determination.  He  did  not  care.  He  was 
dull.  He  wondered  what  was  the  matter  with  him. 


When  Laurence  looked  at  his  mother's  stooped  back 
in  its  dowdy  cotton  dress  and  the  wispy  hair  clinging  to 
the  sweated  nape  of  her  yellow  wrinkled  neck,  her  verbal 
acceptance  of  his  resolution  to  go  abroad  maddened 
him.  He  was  not  certain  that  he  wanted  to  go  and  he 
required  her  articulate  resistance  to  force  him  to  it. 

Instead,  she  persisted  in  speaking  to  others  of  "Lau- 
rence's departure,"  as  though  it  were  already  a  settled 
thing. 

Mr.  Farley  said,  "I  don't  know!  I  don't  know! 
You  know  what  you  want,  Laurence."  He  felt  that  no 
one  but  himself  understood  growing  old.  What  his 
wife  knew  of  old  age  he  did  not  regard  as  knowledge. 
She  was  old  without  understanding  it.  He  had  stopped 
writing  to  Helen  without  ever  having  made  any 
definite  proposal  to  her.  He  felt  obliged  to  send 
her  checks  for  their  boy,  but  if  she  did  not  acknowledge 
them,  though  it  hurt  him,  he  was  glad.  He  tried  not 
to  think  of  her.  His  conviction  of  age  was  born  of 
knowledge  that  was  deep  in  his  flesh,  and  so  it  was 
good.  It  was  beyond  doubt.  It  was  his.  He  felt, 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

without  being  able  to  express  it,  that  truth  was  at  the 
end  of  things.  And  that  what  he  had  come  to  now  was 
truth  because  there  was  nothing  more.  It  w**s  the  end 
of  life.  He  felt  that  some  day  it  would  matter  very 
little  whether  Laurence  went  abroad  or  not.  Alice's 
restless  eccentricity  troubled  Mr.  -Farley  like  a  dream, 
but  he  knew  that  her  unrest  would  grow  weak  like  his 
own.  She  would  know  truth  as  he  knew  it. 

When  he  left  the  living-room  where  he  had  been  with 
Laurence  and  Alice,  Alice  said,  "Papa  Farley  walks  as 
though  he  were  a  hundred." 

"Maybe  he  is." 

"You're  very  cryptic,  Laurence." 

"I'm  tired,  Alice." 

"Well,  you  haven't  grown  tired  through  exerting 
yourself  on  behalf  of  any  one  else,"  Alice  said  sharply. 

"Nor  have  you,  I  think." 

"I've  done  something  for  your  children." 

"I  wish  God  had  provided  you  with  a  family,  Alice." 

Tears  rose  to  Alice's  dull,  ravaged  eyes.  She  stared 
at  him  helplessly.  "Good  God !"  she  said  at  last.  "And 
what  are  you?" 

Laurence  sat  very  still  and  unmoved,  smiling,  his  pipe 
between  his  teeth,  but  his  lip  trembled  in  a  sneer. 
"Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  be  expected  to  know !"  he 
said. 

Alice  could  not  bear  him  near  her.  She  went  out, 
her  heavy  hips  swinging  with  a  kind  of  reluctant  deter- 
mination under  her  dingy  rough  cloth  skirt,  her  broad, 
fleshy  shoulders  defiantly  set. 

Laurence  noted,  familiarly,  wondering  why  it  hurt 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

him,  how  her  wet,  brown  hair  was  half  combed,  tucked 
askew;  and  that  her  collar  was  off  the  band  of  her 
blouse  at  the  nape  of  her  neck,  showing  a  patch  of 
swarthy  skin. 

She  rushed  up  the  stairs  and  he  could  hear  her  slam 
the  door  of  her  room.  He  almost  imagined  he  could 
hear  her  shriek  as  he  had  one  time  at  night. 


When  Laurence  talked  to  Alice  about  going  away, 
she  said,  "Good  God!  Go  anywhere!  If  you  had  had 
any  guts  you  would  have  gone  before  this." 

Mrs.  Farley,  hearing  this,  was  afraid  of  Alice's  vio- 
lence, yet  hoarded  the  consciousness  of  the  weakness  to 
which  it  confessed.  Alice's  face  was  already  debauched 
with  some  secret  passion.  Mrs.  Farley  grew  hard  and 
strong  against  it. 

"You  mustn't  mention  Mr.  Ridge  in  Alice's  pres- 
ence," she  told  Laurence  one  day.  When  she  said  it 
she  looked  strong  and  secret. 

They  were  at  table.  Alice  had  not  come  down  to 
dinner.  May  had  been  permitted  the  occasion  to  eat 
with  her  elders.  In  her  small,  dumb  face,  her  eyes, 
turned  on  her  grandmother,  were  timidly  alive  with  in- 
terest. May's  face  was  like  a  yellow  pearl,  melting  in 
its  coldness  with  the  terrified  warmth  of  her  blue-black 
eyes. 

She  sat  squirming  in  her  chair,  smoothing  her  dress 
down  over  her  stomach,  but,  when  her  grandmother 
frowned  at  her,  she  undid  herself. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  215 

"May,  do  you  want "  Mrs.  Farley  leaned  to- 
ward the  child. 

May  knew  what  her  grandmother  thought.  May 
was  in  terrible  fear  of  being  sent  off  to  the  toilet  be- 
fore she  could  tell  what  she  had  to  say.  "Aunt  Alice 
talks  to  herself !"  she  blurted  out  shrilly. 

Immediately  she  said  it,  the  table  surrounded  by 
grown  people  melted  away  from  her,  and  she  was  in  her- 
self, half  drowned,  as  in  a  lake  of  pitch  tingling  with 
moonlight. 

When  May  came  out  of  herself,  she  saw  her  grand- 
mother making  knowing  grimaces  at  Laurence,  and 
Grandpa  F'arley  looking  ashamed  and  unhappy.  Then 
May  was  sorry  she  had  told  about  Aunt  Alice. 

"How  do  you  know  Aunt  Alice  talks  to  herself?" 
Laurence  asked. 

May  looked  at  her  father  intensely,  like  a  little 
surprised  doe.  Each  experience  to  her  was  unique 
and  absolute,  like  a  forest  creature's.  There  was  no 
recognition  in  her  seeing,  and  because  all  faces  were 
strange  to  her  she  knew  them  better. 

"I — I — I  heard  her — lots  of  times — in  her  room  and 
when — when  we  were  out  walking.'*  Her  small  hand 
continued  to  smooth  her  stiff  dress  over  her  hollow 
little  belly,  and  she  felt  her  ring  burning  a  cold  circle 
around  her  finger — ring  that  was  a  pain  and  a  joy  to 
her. 

Mr.  Farley,  ashamed  for  Alice,  played  with  his  fork. 

Mrs.  Farley  said,  "Alice  always  had  a  terrible  tem- 
per and  got  her  feelings  hurt  needlessly,  but  I  never 


216  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

imagined  she  would  develop  the  crazy  morbidness  she 
has  shown  lately." 

Mr.  Farley  could  not  bear  the  talk  about  pain  any 
longer.  He  got  up.  "I  think  I'd  send  Alice  her  din- 
ner," he  said  to  no  one  in  particular.  He  added,  "I 
have  some  letters  to  write  so  I  won't  wait  until  the 
rest  of  you  are  finished." 

When  Mr.  Farley  was  out  of  hearing,  Mrs.  Farley 
said,  pursing  her  lips,  "You  know  there  was  insanity 
in  your  father's  family,  Laurence." 

"Yes.  You  told  me  once.  Aunt  Celia."  Then  Lau- 
rence frowned  at  his  mother  and  nodded  toward  May. 
He  hated  his  mother's  attitude  toward  Alice,  but,  be- 
cause he  loathed  it,  he  always  defended  it.  What  his 
instinct  warned  him  against,  he  always  refused  to  give 
up.  When  his  mother,  hoop-shouldered,  weakly  resist- 
ant, looked  at  him  with  her  unyielding,  self-enwrapped 
eyes,  it  was  because  of  the  very  shudder  which  it  gave 
him,  that  he  hardened  himself  to  take  it.  He  was  kind 
to  her  as  an  apology  for  his  contempt. 

Mrs.  Farley  turned  to  May.  "Fold  up  your  nap- 
kin." 

May  rolled  the  soft  cloth  in  her  little  trembling  hand. 
She  had  hoped  when  she  spoke  that  her  father  and 
grandmother  would  somehow  relieve  her  of  Aunt  Alice 
whom  she  carried  inside  her  so  oppressively,  but  now  she 
knew  they  would  not. 

"Go  upstairs  and  begin  to  undress  yourself,"  Mrs. 
Farley  said. 

"Yes'm."  May  slid  to  her  tiptoes.  Her  belly  ached 
with  a  kind  of  sickish  hunger.  She  went  out  into  the 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  217 

hall  to  the  foot  of  the  stair,  and  laid  her  pale  hand  on 
the  cold,  slick  rail  which  caught  dim  reflections  from 
the  bright  open  door  of  the  dining-room.  She  would 
have  to  go  up  alone,  past  Aunt  Alice's  door.  The  dark 
did  not  want  her  because  she  had  told.  It  was  white 
and  blind  against  her  eyes. 

Quivering  in  every  limb  she  toptoed  up  the  steps. 

When  Laurence  was  alone  with  his  mother  he  said, 
a  little  sharply,  "Alice  is  inclined  to  be  a  busybody 
and  to  make  herself  generally  obnoxious,  Mother,  but 
I  don't  believe  her  condition  is  as  bad  as  you  seem 
to  imagine.  You  must  remember  that  all  old  maids 
don't  go  mad." 

Mrs.  Farley  kept  her  eyes  away.  "You  don't  see 
what  I  do.  You  heard  May.  Alice  has  had  this  curi- 
ous obsession  of  trying  to  separate  me  from  her 

father "  Mrs.  Farley  could  not  go  on.  She  stood 

up  and  began  to  draw  off  the  tablecloth  to  shake  the 
crumbs  out. 

The  gas  jet  hissed  softly  above  them,  and  the  white 
curtains  before  the  open  windows  were  like  white  stir- 
ring shadows  against  the  thick  night  beyond. 

Laurence  began  to  talk  of  some  indifferent  subject 
and  Mrs.  Farley  dared  not  bring  him  back  to  the  thing 
of  which  she  wished  to  speak. 


One  afternoon  a  fancy  struck  Laurence  to  abandon 
work  and  go  out  to  Winnie's  grave. 

Summer  was  passing  and  it  was  half  cold  again.    The 


218  THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

sunshine  was  a  pale  fluid  trickling  across  the  withering 
grass  of  the  cemetery.  The  maples  were  already  begin- 
ning to  turn  and  their  ghostly  scarlet  leaves  were  like 
pale  flattened  flames.  He  stood  by  the  grave  and  heard 
the  hissing  of  the  wind  through  the  sunny  grass,  and 
the  rattle  of  husks  in  the  cornfield  that  ran  along  the 
cemetery  wall. 

The  plowed  fields  beyond  were  purple  plush,  misted 
with  a  fire  of  green.  Nearer,  dirty  brown  sheep  moved 
over  the  raspberry-colored  stubble.  Between  Laurence 
and  the  sun  was  glowing  foliage  that  seemed  to  burn 
with  a  secret. 

The  sight  of  the  mound,  beaten  in  by  the  autumn 
winds,  and  already  somewhat  sunken,  made  him  sick. 

When  he  went  home  he  said  to  his  mother,  "I've  some 
good  news  for  you.  I've  given  up  the  struggle." 

Mrs.  Farley  did  not  look  at  him  when  he  said  this. 
She  was  startled  and  afraid  to  answer  at  once.  They 
were  in  the  kitchen,  and,  smiling  a  little,  she  stared  be- 
fore her  into  the  sink,  by  which  she  stood. 

The  clear  stream  of  water,  dancing  with  light,  hung 
like  a  thread  of  glass  as  it  flowed  slowly  from  the 
shiny  spigot  into  the  porcelain  bowl.  The  back  door 
was  ajar  and  the  bitter-sweet  smell  of  wet,  dying  grass 
floated  into  the  room. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked  at  last. 

He  had  seated  himself  in  a  careless  heap  near  the 
table.  His  eyes  were  bright,  and,  as  he  gazed  at  her 
with  a  sharp,  pained  look,  seemed  sightless.  "Just  that. 
I  have  decided  there  is  no  more  escape  from  old  age  in 
Europe  than  at  Coney  Island." 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE  219 

Mrs.  Farley  was  afraid  of  showing  how  relieved  she 
was ;  so  she  asked,  "Do  your  father  and  Alice  know  that 
dinner  is  nearly  ready?" 

Laurence  rose  and  went  out  of  the  room  to  call  them. 
With  a  shiver  of  wonderment,  she  looked  over  her 
shoulder  to  watch  his  broad  back  and  rocking  legs  as 
he  disappeared. 

Now  he'll  get  married  again,  she  told  herself. 

Mrs.  Farley  did  not  know  what  was  occurring,  but 
she  felt  herself  growing  strong  again  in  the  house.  Her 
husband  was  coming  back  to  her.  He  tried  to  court  her 
favor,  and,  without  appearing  conscious  of  it,  she 
showed  a  growing  toleration  for  him.  Winnie's  death, 
she  explained  to  herself,  had  shocked  them  into  their 
senses,  and  she  was  glad  with  a  weak,  malicious  gladness 
which  she  would  not  admit.  To  escape  the  responsi- 
bility of  her  own  emotions,  she  began  to  go  to  church 
more  frequently.  Having  God  on  her  side,  in  her  hu- 
mility she  felt  triumphantly  cruel. 

But  as  if  to  conceal  her  relief  from  herself,  she  de- 
veloped an  even  greater  passion  for  self-denial  than  she 
had  hitherto  shown.  Mr.  Farley  felt  her  shabbiness  as 
a  reproach  to  him,  and  he  begged  her  to  buy  clothes, 
but  she  was  always  able  to  think  of  some  excuse  for  not 
doing  so. 

Tonight,  when  he  came  into  the  kitchen,  he  had  a 
large  pasteboard  box  under  his  arm.  He  could  not  per- 
suade her  to  look  at  it. 

Her  hands  were  in  the  rushing  sink-water.  She  would 
not  turn  round. 

you  have  bought  me  a  dress,"  she  said,  "I  don't 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

want  it !  You  know  how  May  needs  school  clothes  and 
Laurence  seems  to  take  no  responsibility  whatever  for 
her  appearance,  and  there's  that  leaky  ceiling  in  the 
bathroom  that  I  have  been  trying  to  get  mended  for  a 
month.  You  might  have  seen  to  some  of  those  things 
before  you  spent  money  on  clothes  for  me.  Heaven 
knows  it  matters  little  enough  to  anybody  whether  I 
am  dressed  up  or  not."  And  she  added,  "If  you  insist 
on  my  having  clothes  you  should  have  given  me  the 
money  to  buy  them.  I  could  probably  have  gotten 
something  more  economical  and  at  least  been  sure  that 
it  fit." 

Mr.  Farley  listened  to  her.  He  had  a  tired,  apolo- 
getic smile,  almost  ashamed.  He  felt  sorry  for  her  and 
for  himself.  He  was  patient. 

"Now,  Mother,  I  think  Laurence  and  I  can  promise 
you  that  the  bathroom  ceiling  will  be  mended  in  a  few 
days,  and  if  you  would  only  look  at  the  clothes  you 
could  see  whether  they  fit  or  not,  and  if  they  didn't  I 
could  exchange  them." 

"It  isn't  as  if  I  didn't  appreciate  the  thought " 

She  stopped,  keeping  him  outside  her — outside  her 
vague,  ungiving  eyes.  "I  have  to  be  practical  for  the 
lot  of  you,"  she  said. 

"Well,  Mother,  you  can  be  as  practical  as  you  like 
about  the  house,  but  I  want  to  keep  you  looking  nice." 

She  was  on  the  verge  of  retorting  to  him,  but  she 
restrained  herself. 

He  felt  that  she  was  about  to  say  something  which 
he  could  not  answer,  and  that  it  was  time  for  him  to 
leave  her  alone.  He  went  out. 


THE  NARROW  HOUSE 

The  room  was  still  but  for  the  swish  of  the  brush  that 
was  making  the  white  sink  glow  with  cleanliness. 

In  Mrs.  Farley's  knotted,  unsteady  fingers,  the  back 
of  the  scrubbing  brush  bumped  on  the  sides  of  the 
porcelain  bowl.  A  fly  buzzed  fiercely  in  the  luminous 
dark  against  the  windowpane,  then  was  still,  like  a 
spring  that  had  fiercely  unwound. 

Mrs.  Farley  rested  an  instant.  The  brush  slid  from 
her  fingers  and  clattered  against  a  dish.  She  wiped  her 
eyes  with  her  apron.  She  was  tired,  but  with  weak 
patience,  victoriously  ungiving,  she  held  out  against 
life. 


THE   END 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


P1V 

SEP  22  1988  REC'D 


100m-8,'65(F6282B8)2373 


TORED  AT  Ml 


PS3537. 


3  2106  00214  4068 


